National Pirates of the Sorcerer's Persia
by Sivad Ttarp
Summary: When a mystical artifact sends Balthazar and Ben Gates back in time, their friends will have to work together to stop Horvath, defeat an invincible sorceress, and save the world and their friends before its too late. Guest starring Jack Sparrow and Prince Dastan.
1. Chapter 1: Fight at the Musuem

Chapter 1: Fight at the Museum

The purr of the aged Roll Royce Phantom's engine was negligible compared to hustle, bustle and overall noise of night in New York City.

"Are you sure he's really here?" asked Dave Stutler, trying to prevent the state of his nerves from showing in his voice. He failed.

"Mostly sure," said Balthazar Blake without looking at him.

"How much is mostly?"

"I'm about seventy-five percent sure he's within a ten mile radius of…there," Balthazar pointed as soon as the stately stone building came into view.

"It's busy tonight," Dave noted. The amount of traffic around the museum was abnormal, as was the new valet service and finely dressed patrons. "Do you think something's going on?"

"If so, they have terrible timing," said Balthazar, and he parked the car in a nearby alley. Master and apprentice exited the vehicle.

"Grimhold?" Balthazar asked aloud.

"Check," Dave brandished the antique nesting doll. "Let's hope this goes according to plan."

"Does it ever?" Balthazar raised an eyebrow.

"No."

"Exactly. You're the Prime Merlinian, what do you have to be afraid of?"

"Lots of things," Dave admitted.

"Good. You're learning."

Closer to the entrance, Dave literally ran into a sign. Rubbing his bruised shoulder, he looked the information over. "Oh, there's some sort of charity gala going on. It's for the special opening of a new wing, filled with new historical stuff. The name of the exhibition is 'X marks the spot' and, oh of course."

"What?" Balthazar asked, not really listening.

"The keynote speaker is Benjamin Franklin Gates."

Balthazar snorted, "What kind of name is that?"

"A rich one," Dave admitted. "He found the Templer treasure, the greatest stash of historical artifacts ever discovered. He found the lost city gold under Mount Rushmore a few years ago too."

"Oh, explains why I haven't heard of him," Balthazar shrugged. "Spend ten years in an urn and you're bound to miss something."

Together, they joined the rich and famous of the academic world heading toward the entrance, gaining their fair share of odd looks in the process. "Look's like its black tie," said Dave.

"Nothing you can't handle," Balthazar said.

For a split second the man at the door thought he saw a skinny college kid wearing far more layers than was fashionably advisable, accompanied by a tall man with a stubbled chin, long, shaggy blonde hair and a scuffed leather trench coat. But by the time they arrived however, all he saw were two clean-cut, well-dressed men, one of whom was extremely familiar.

"Mr. Gates," the doorman greeted him, "I thought you were already inside."

"Thoughts can be deceiving," said Balthazar, confused. He showed his identification, and passed through all the security precautions without incident. Once he had gone, the doorman could not, for the life of him remember what the man's card had actually looked like, only that it had all been in order.

Dave and Balthazar found the museum transformed into a world of high-society, classical music and mediocre champagne. Though they didn't look out of place to anyone but themselves, Dave couldn't help but feel uncomfortable, out of his league.

At another time, he might have been interested enough to go see the exhibit soon to be unveiled, but if so he would be going in between classes on a weekday with a student discount. This wasn't his scene, or his thing.

"Let's split up, cover more ground," Balthazar decided.

"Great, how about you look around here, and I'll go this way," Dave walked and discreetly ducked under a velvet rope. The bright lights and dull noise faded behind him as he headed deeper into the darkened and deserted exhibit halls.

…

"Ben! There you are, we've been looking all over you." Balthazar was startled out of his thoughts by a pretty blonde woman who kissed him on the check. She was wearing a dark blue gown.

"I don't mean to be any trouble," he said, confused but in character. "Do I know you?"

"Of course," said the woman, "You remember George Washington's shoe size, of course you remember me. You're a great historian but a dreadful comedian. Now your speech is about to start so…"

…

Benjamin Franklin Gates emerged from the exhibit gallery content. He'd decided to make a last minute check on the new exhibit. He came away satisfied. A different man would have been extremely proud of his accomplishments, but Ben was more excited about the history and the artifacts themselves than the name on a plaque. Not that he minded the fact that his and the Gates family's reputation was now strictly reputable and even admirable, thanks to him.

Scanning the crowd, Ben saw Abigail talking to…was that himself?

"Hey," Ben called, moving toward them. "What are you doing?" Abigail's eyes widened as she took in the pair of Bens. The imposter did a double take and excused himself, before he sprinted away.

Ben broke into a run, and hopped over a velvet rope in pursuit.

"Hello doctor, how's the champagne?" asked Riley Poole, coming up behind Abigail. He looked uncomfortable in his suit.

"Did you just see that?" she swirled the alcohol in her glass.

"See what?"

"I think I've had enough," Abigail said, and handed Riley her glass, before giving chase

…

There weren't many places creepier than a museum in the dark, Dave Stutler thought as the light from his fingers illuminated a row of African tribal masks. It didn't help that a part of him sincerely hoped he did not find who he was looking for.

Even a month ago, I would never have seen myself here today, Dave thought. He never would have expected that his ten-year-old hallucinations were all too real, and that he himself was a sorcerer. Not just any sorcerer, but the Prime Merlinian, a magical chosen one with near unlimited potential, and using both science and magic he'd been able to destroy Morganna, but most powerful and most evil sorceress of all time. Oh, and he was officially dating Becky, which was potential more unbelievable than anything else.

All this, and Dave still wasn't looking forward to facing Maxim Horvath again. It didn't help that Horvath was now three or four times as powerful as a standard sorcerer, having absorbed the powers of notable other dark sorcerer's in the recent past. Even the Prime Merlinian had to think twice being going up against that.

"Think of the devil and he appears," Dave gulped as he turned the corner.

"Oh, hello Dave," said Horvath looking up from the remnants of a shattered display case. The man who had haunted Dave's nightmare's for the last ten years looked the same as always: old-fashioned suit, bejeweled cane, fur coat, bowler and neat beard. He was holding the artifact from the case, an ornate metallic hourglass. While the ability to do magic had had an overall positive effect on Dave's life, he wouldn't have minded if Horvath had stayed imaginary, charming accent and all.

Dave summoned a plasma bolt, but Horvath was faster. He swung his cane like a baseball bat and the concussive blast threw Dave off his feet and slam into the ground yards away, knocking over a medieval suit of armor on top of him just to add injury to injury.

Dave sat up, wincing, already forming a ball of flame in his hand, but all that remained of Horvath was a distinct clatter of patent leather footsteps.

"Are you alright?" Dave quickly let the flame die as the blonde woman ran up to him. He couldn't tell if she looked more concerned about him or about the suit of armor.

"Yeah," he said. "Wait…you're Abigail Chase, aren't you?"

"Yes," she said. "Did you see a man in a tuxedo come running this way? Two men, actually, looking exactly the same?"

"And I am?" the young man behind her asked dramatically.

"No idea," said Dave getting to his feet.

"Come on, Riley Poole, I'm supposed to be co-finder of the Templer treasure," Riley groaned, "I'm the one with the book deal."

A crash sounded from somewhere ahead. Balthazar. "Look, um, stay here guys," Dave said quickly and sprinted toward the noise. He waved a hand and it looked as though the antique nesting doll lying nearby flew into his hand.

"Ben?" Riley asked.

"Most likely," said Abigail. They followed

…

The man no longer looked exactly like Ben, his disguise had washed away like a layer of wet paint as he ran, leaving him dressed in black with long hair and a longer coat. Still, Ben had to admit that the similarities between them, in face and body-type, were more than a little disturbing.

Oh, and it seemed they could run at exactly the same speed.

Suddenly, the man ahead skidded to a stop and half-turned around. "Get down!" he shouted. Something about his tone made Ben trust the man enough to duck behind a display case. Not a moment to late, as a wall of flame rushed down the corridor. The man in the trench coat was caught in the center of it, but was somehow unharmed, throwing up what looked to Ben, for lack of a better explanation, like a magical shield. Ben's cover protected him from most of the flames, but the heat was momentarily unbearable, and he was sure his eyebrows came out a bit singed.

The man in the trench coat was lifted of his feet and slammed into the wall, pressed against it by some unseen force, as another man, dressed just as eccentrically, approached. "Balthazar Blake," said the man genially, "I wish I could say I was happy to see you. But I'd be lying if I did."

"Nothing new for you, Horvath," Balthazar grunted. He summoned all his magic to break away, but Horvath's focus was too strong. "What's that you've got?"

"A trifle really," Horvath weighed the hourglass in his hand, "Something to while away the hours. I'll have to do something once I've killed you, won't I?"

Ben crouched in his hiding place, and his hand found an antique pot. It was to late to factor the impossibility of events, but not to early to do something about him. After a second of silence in memorandum of such a priceless artifact, Ben hurled the pot. It shattered across Horvath's shoulders. "What?" the sorcerer looked up distracted, and saw him for the first time.

It was all the distraction Balthazar needed. Jumping to the ground, Balthazar hurled a bolt of energy. Horvath deflected it, sending it to burst against the ceiling, and swung his cane, Balthazar fell as if tripped. His next plasma bolt met its mark, Horvath was knocked of his feet, and his cane and the hourglass both went sliding across the floor.

Ben dived for the cane, but Horvath kicked him in the jaw with an expensive leather shoe, and pulled the walking stick from his grip in time to block another plasma bolt.

Horvath summoned the hourglass, it flew toward his grip, but Balthazar rammed into him, tackling him around the waist. The two sorcerers went down in a tangle of limbs and blows.

Ben grabbed the neglected hourglass, recognizing it as one of the odder pieces of the Templer treasure collection.

Horvath seized a handful of Balthazar's shoulder, and flames danced around his hand. Balthazar screamed and punched Horvath across the face.

The cane-toting sorcerer angled his walking stick, and a narrow jet of energy shot from the tip to disappear within the hourglass. Ben stared as the sand within began to twist and writhe like a cyclone. It was mesmerizing.

"Don't-" Balthazar tore away from Horvath, and yanked the hourglass from Ben's hands, hurling it toward the ground.

It seemed to Ben as though the world around him darkened and melted into a whirlpool of burning sand.

…

"No," Dave shouted. His mentor and the historian-treasure hunter Ben Gates both faded into nothingness before his eyes. He wasn't sure which loss was worse.

"Yes, actually," Horvath was already up and retreating, prejudiced against facing the Prime Merlinian again so soon. Dave brandished the Grimhold, but Horvath hurled a collection of kitchen knives from the folds of his coat.

The blades passed Dave harmlessly, flying straight toward Abigail and Riley. Dave waved a hand, knocking all the knives to the ground, but by that time Horvath had vanished.

Dave growled in anger, and kicked a nearby sarcophagus. The coffin rolled over onto his foot, making him scream all the louder, "Balthazar."

Abigail was staring at the floor, eyes glazed, "Ben…" her tone was disbelieving.

"Magic," said Riley, equally disbelieving, looking down at the knives.

Dave nearly jumped out of when skin as Abigail grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. "What the hell is going on?"

"What he said," Dave pointed at Riley. "I really should be going, and you should be staying…"

"No chance of that," Riley said quickly, picking up one of the knives for further scrutiny.

"You're going to tell me what happened to Ben, and that other guy," Abigail ordered Dave.

Dave raised his hands in surrender, "I don't know really. They might even not be dead. Either way, I'm working on it."

"This seemed to have something to do with it," said Riley, picking up the antique hourglass, no worse for the wear from its rough treatment.

"That's as good a place as any," said Dave. "I know just the person to ask-"

"You know we're coming with you, right," Abigail told him.

Dave paused. Balthazar would say no, and probably wipe their memory or something. But for the life of him Dave couldn't remember how to wipe someone's memory, he'd hadn't gotten that far in the encantus yet and it wasn't as if they hadn't been exposed to magic already…

"Sure," he said. "The more the merrier."


	2. Chapter 2: Just in Time

Chapter 2: Just in Time

The museum was in a state of panic. Although most people were naturally inclined not the recognize magic, this was a high-profile event and it had enough security to know that something out of the ordinary and most likely sinister was taking place. It had taken a fair amount of correctly applied magic to get Dave, Riley and Abigail through the lockdown unscathed.

Still, they managed it and arrived at the old Rolls Royce's alley-parking place. A haze of depressing disbelief hung over the party. Dave had thought Balthazar dead before and had been proved wrong, and yet the possibility that, dead or not, he would never see his mentor again seemed all to concrete. Abigail and Riley seemed to feel the same way, albeit about their own friend.

In fact, Dave was distracted enough during the following drive that he ran two lights, blatantly cut off a speeding taxi and made Abigail yelp twice along with prompting a chorus of angry honks.

Finally they pulled into the parking lot of a neglected tenement building several blocks away. Dave discreetly disguised the automobile as a five-year-old hybrid, just in case Horvath came looking for Balthazar's car.

"Hello Dave," said the slender beautiful woman emerging from the shadows. She had dark hair and fair skin and wore jeans and a red long-sleeved shirt. "Who's this with you?"

Riley and Abigail introduced themselves nervously. "This is Veronica," Dave told them, "Another sorcerer and Balthazar's girlfriend."

"Speaking of which, where is Balthazar?" Veronica asked seriously.

"Shouldn't we put up some sort of magical field so we're not disturbed…" Dave started to suggest.

"Already done," said Veronica. "Your text only told me it was urgent. Now you need to tell me everything."

Dave began at the beginning, leaving nothing out. Riley and Abigail helped out where they could, but they still didn't really know what was going on. The new knowledge about the existence of magic had got them a little shell-shocked. Dave new Veronica cared for Balthazar probably more than he did, but she didn't even blink when she told her what had happened to his mentor.

"You have the hourglass with you, do you not?" she enquired after he had finished.

"Yeah…" said Dave.

"May I see it?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Dave turned to get it out of the car but Riley beat him to it.

"It came from the Templer treasure room," Abigail explained as Riley handed the piece to the sorceress. "I never really thought about it before, but it's really a very strange artifact, mixes styles from many different culture's and dynasties."

"You haven't thought about it before because you're meant not to think about it," said Veronica. "The surface charms are in place to prevent those without magical capability to pass it by, ignore it's more incongruent facets altogether."

'So what is it?" asked Dave, "Other than an sandglass I mean. What does it do?" He hoped it wasn't a death ray.

"I'll get back to you on that," Veronica said. She sat on the pavement with the hourglass in her lap. Scrutinizing its designs she turned it over and over in her hands, whispering ancient words under her breath.

The rest of them just stood around awkwardly.

"So," said Riley, "Read any good books lately."

"No, Riley, I still haven't read your book yet," Abigail rolled her eyes.

"I didn't say anything about…"

"No, but you implied it, which is worse," she said.

"This," said Veronica finally, "Is no ordinary hourglass."

"I had that much figured out," Dave admitted.

"It's old," Veronica explained, "Older than Merlin himself, or at least the sand within it is. It looks like sand, takes on its attributes, but these are the building blocks of creation, the original god particle. It is said in legend that the gods originally formed our universe from this substance, but I never knew it still existed in such pure form. Through vaguely manipulating the attributes of this sand in all matter around us we sorcerers are able to perform magical acts in the first place. One grain has more inherent power than the Prime Merlinian himself."

Riley raised his hand, "I think my general belief that this is more than some hallucination brought on by stress of bad food just dropped by about half, you know, give or take."

"Just pretend it's alien," Abigail suggested.

"Might as well be."

Ignoring them, Dave stroked his chin in thought. "No wonder Horvath was so interested in it."

"Makes me glad he didn't get ahold of it," Abigail agreed, "Whoever he is. But what did it do to Ben?"

"This is fine workmanship," Veronica continued, stroking the hourglass gently, half-speaking to herself. "The sand inside is in a state of temporal flux, continually regenerating. That keeps it from running out, makes the supply inexhaustible. It was a very heavy piece of magic to set that up, it must have taken several sorcerers working in concert."

"But what does it do?" Dave said. Balthazar was always mystical and dramatic, but Veronica talked about magic in very practical, scientific terminology. Sorcerers were always ahead of their time...some more than others. He couldn't help but smile as he tried to picture Balthazar attending one of his college classes, whereas Veronica might as well be teaching one.

"The shape of an hourglass is all too appropriate," said Veronica, looking up. "It influences time."

"You mean like time-travel?" Dave couldn't keep the shock of his face.

"I think so, yes," said Veronica. "Among other things. Time does not solely a linear progression of events; it's more like a crumpled mess, a pile of intersecting realities and generational gaps."

"The angels have the phonebox…" Riley trailed off as the women both glared at him. Dave was only one who appreciated the reference, let alone recognized it.

"Through proper manipulation of this artifact," said Veronica, "Which requires magic, of course, you have the capability to bend the time-stream to your own desires."

"If such a device was briefly activated…" Dave mused.

"I believe that's exactly what happened back in the museum," Veronica agreed. "Balthazar Blake and Benjamin Franklin Gates have been lost in the time-stream."

"Lost in the time-stream?" Abigail blanched, "Are you crazy?"

Veronica and Dave looked to her. Together they raised their fingers slightly parted. "Little bit," Dave shrugged.

"As long as he's America sometime after 1776 Ben'll be fine," Riley said. "He's probably his own grandfather by now or something."

"Charming," Dave made a face,

"Either that," said Veronica, "Or they've been destroyed, their atoms torn apart and spread across some future landscape. One of the two."

"Let's hope for the first one," Dave said.

"Do you have any idea where they might have ended up?" Abigail asked Veronica.

"No," the sorceress admitted.

"Can you find out?" asked Riley.

"Yes," Veronica nodded.

"So…that should probably be our next course of action," said Dave. Everyone agreed.

"The incantation necessary will be taxing," said Veronica. "I think I have the abilities to perform it successfully, but it will take time. I will need a large secluded space, somewhere I won't be disturbed."

"I think I know just the place," Dave said.


	3. Chapter 3: Ysabelle

Chapter 3: Ysabelle

Horvath entered the stylish townhouse cautiously, making sure his magical wards were intact. Registered as property of the late magician superstar Drake Stone, it was Horvath's favorite of the dozen or so safe houses he had set up. That was why he came here the least.

Placing his hat on the hat stand before hanging up his coat, Horvath sniffed the air. Though his tricks and traps had not been disturbed, he sensed something was wrong, something out of the ordinary.

Perhaps it was simply the museum incident plaguing him. He was far away, but still as tense as he'd been during the struggle. Sometimes it paid to have an apprentice to take out your anger on, he was beginning to truly see the appeal.

Take pleasure in small victories, Horvath reminded himself. Balthazar Blake was gone. Gone where, he couldn't confirm, but whenever the period it couldn't be far away enough. The Prime Merlinian had power, to be sure, even a bit of natural talent, but there was little possibility he could have tracked Horvath here and set a trap, not in so little time.

Unless it was Veronica…

Horvath successfully banished her face from his minds eye, but he still took the last of his kitchen knives from his suit coat, and held it ready in his right hand, as he moved into the house.

Horvath found nothing unexpected as he crept through the sitting room beyond the front hall.

Horvath pushed the door into the kitchen with his cane, letting the door swing open. He entered after a second's pause.

"Your health," Toasted the woman behind the table, raising her hand.

Horvath spun and threw the knife. It flew true.

Almost instantly, a sharp length of steel appeared at his neck. Its edge grazed his flesh. The message was clear; Horvath dropped his cane. It clattered against the tile. The blade retreated a centimeter, but did not waver. Horvath could tell its owner was standing right behind him, but he couldn't hear any breathing.

The woman looked down at handle protruding from her chest, and coughed once. She gently put her glass on the table. She seized the knife by the hilt with one hand, and slowly pulled it out. It came free with a sound like a steak knife cutting through rare meat.

The woman looked at the hole in her chest, which sealed itself instantly, the skin regenerating and shaping, leaving nothing but a pinkish bruise. That two faded quickly.

She twirled the knife in her hand, and stabbed it into the table so pointed up, the tip buried in the wood against the grain.

"Now that we've got that over with," said the woman, "Won't you have a seat? The wine is terrible, but the company should at least be palatable."

Horvath's mystery attacker allowed him to take a seat. The sorcerer looked back to see a slim figure in dark garb. The blade was replaced in a harness of the man's back.

"Give him back his little cane," said the woman, "It isn't like he'll be able to hurt me."

The swordsmen picked up the cane and twirled it in his hand before giving it to Horvath. What was it with these people and playing with weapons?

"You'll have to excuse him," the woman said. "I bound the spirit of a demon into the body of an oriental assassin centuries ago. I call him Fred. He's effective and obedient, but lacking in conversational skills. Had to sew his mouth up you see, couldn't have the poor devil howling out the counter-curse amid his profanities. Dear me, that was a lot of twine."

Horvath scrutinized the woman before him as she titled the wine bottle, filling another glass. She was definitely not Veronica. Veronica's hair was dark and straight, while this woman's was silvery-blonde and waving, capping around her shoulders. She looked about five years younger than Merlin's third apprentice, and where Veronica had more of a limber, athletic body type, this woman was shorter and fuller, enticingly so. It had been sometime since he'd been at all interested in a woman beyond Veronica for anything more than the pleasure of snapping her neck. It was a good feeling. It didn't hurt that she dressed all in black.

"Maxim Horvath," she handed him the glass. "I know so much about you. It's pleasing to finally meet you…officially."

"You have me at a disadvantage," Horvath sipped the wine. It was indeed dreadful. "I know nothing about you."

"You may call me Ysabelle," she said.

Horvath choked on his wine. "Ysabelle? _The _Ysabelle? Morganna's lost apprentice?"

"The same," she smiled. "See, you have heard of me."

"You're a myth. Merlin mentioned you once or twice, but I don't think even he was sure you existed. Surely he never met you."

"One of my regrets, Merlin was a great sorcerer," she cut him off before he could protest. "A great sorcerer, not necessarily a great man."

"You were trained in the arts by Morganna herself?"

"The same," Ysabelle took a long deliberate sip. The red wine looked bloody on her lips. "I now have the honor of being the sole apprentice she took before her death. We parted ways not long before Merlin and she began their little war."

"What happened?" she seemed to like hearing herself talk, and Horvath wanted to keep her happy, for the time being at least.

"I almost succeeded in killing her."

"I knew Morganna," Horvath pointed out, "I know she would have destroyed you without a second thought."

"Very true," said Ysabelle. "That's why I fled. Luckily for me, Merlin's bitch sealed Morganna in the Grimhold before she could track me down. She was imprisoned, but not vanquished. I was weak then and I still feared her.

"I also knew that Merlin's last loyal apprentice was hunting dark sorcerers, among other phenomena, and I wanted to stay out of his way. I waited. I lived, I loved, I learned. Most of all I grew more powerful."

"Power to be sure," said Horvath. "What you did with that knife. I've seen sorcerer's stop a throw like that before, but never take one full in the chest and heal without a scratch."

"I enjoy my talents," she said.

"An impressive tale," said Horvath, "And a reasonable explanation. But what brings you here now."

"You might have noticed that Morganna is dead," Ysabelle leaned foreward in her seat, more intensity and just a hint of madness about her. "My mentor, my friend, my rival, my enemy. She's left this world behind."

"I did notice," Horvath took another sip. "Do you intend to succeed where she failed?"

"To an extent," said Ysabelle. "I, for one, do not desire an army of the undead. One undead is just enough for me." She nodded at Fred, who remained entirely still. "Nevertheless, there is yet one opponent who now is any threat to me: the boy Prime Merlinian. I've found the means to dispose of him."

"Do tell," said Horvath.

"You failed to retrieve it just tonight."

"The hourglass," Horvath raised an eyebrow. "So it was what I believed it to be."

"All that and more," said Ysabelle. "With a tool like that there is nothing I cannot do once the boy is out of the way, and with a tool like that I can place him out of the way, permanently. And you're going to help me. Or serve me, if the word appeals"

"I was not informed."

"You need a strong woman in your life, Maxim," said Ysabelle. "Let's face it, without one you lose your purpose. You become _boring. _I'm here to change that."

"If I accept," Horvath swirled the wine in his glass, looking away from her, "Where would we start."

"You lost the hourglass?"

"Well…yes."

"The boy and his friends have the hourglass?"

"Yes." Horvath drained his glass. "That means we should get it back."

Ysabelle smiled sincerely. "Exactly my thoughts."

"Excellent."

"Excellent, _mistress_." She stressed.

"Don't push it," said Horvath.

She laughed. It was a good sound. "Maxim, I have a feeling you and I are going to get along just fine."


	4. Chapter 4: Every Man Jack

Chapter 4: Every Man Jack

Benjamin Gates was underwater.

Instinctively, he began kicking. The water stung his eyes, but he could see light coming from above. He swam toward it.

His lungs were burning (metaphorically) by the time his head broke the surface. Ben took several deep breaths and began to tread water as he got his bearings.

Around him was open sea. An ocean? The water was warm and it had certainly tasted salty. There was a strong breeze, and the yellow sun beat down from the sky, leaving the water a clear blue.

It was certainly daytime here, most likely late morning, but the last he remembered he'd been at the museum, and it had certainly been dark. That was far from the strangest occurrence though, Ben replayed the last few minutes in his head. He couldn't help but admit that the fight he'd stumbled in on had resembled a wizard's duel, like something out of _Harry Potter _or another movie. Was magic real? If it was, was magic what had sent him here to this place? It was obviously pretty far away from the Templar Treasure exhibit hall.

Or had the entire thing been an elaborate hallucination? Was he in a coma?

Or maybe the magic had been real, and he was dead and the afterlife bore some resemblance to the tropics. Or the wizards too had come after his demise.

And whichever way you looked at it, what had happened to Abigail. Riley too, now that he thought of it.

He was sure how long it had been since his arrival but there was one thing Ben did know. A man could only tread water so long, and he was already beginning to tire. The heat didn't help, and neither did his thirst. Ben found himself craving the various drinks he'd passed on back at the gala. The ocean itself looked inviting, but he knew the saltwater would prove less than satisfactory.

Ben looked around, squinting against the sun. Finally, glimpsed a dot on the horizon. A ship!

It came steadily closer, as Ben swam towards it.

As he neared the vessel, Ben could tell it was not so much a ship as a boat. This was a small wooden longboat a mast and sails. It seemed as though it was crewed by a single man. The boat had no engine or modern convenience about it, not that Ben was feeling particularly picky by this point.

"Hey," he shouted between strokes. "A little help here, please."

The man aboard the boat sprung into action, as Ben swam up alongside the vessel. He seized a long pole and hit Ben on the head with it.

"Sorry about that," The man called. Ben grabbed hold of the oar and pulled himself over the side into the boat, adding to the inch or so of water already along the bottom.

It really was an antique, Ben noted. This longboat couldn't have come later than the eighteen-hundreds, unless it was built specially. Regardless, by this point Ben was just happy to be aboard.

"What brings you to this general area?" the man enquired. "Most sailors prefer the use of a ship this far out at sea. I highly recommend one myself, swear by them in fact."

"I wish I knew," Ben admitted, shrugging off his soaked tuxedo jacket. He took stock of his rescuer, and had to do a double take. This was perhaps the strangest man he'd ever seen. He slim, fit, and his skin was tanned by the sun. His dark hair was shaggy and braided with various oddments, as was his small beard. His clever eyes were rimmed with kohl.

The sailor was dressed in styles reminiscent of the seventeenth century, albeit more eccentrically than the history books would ever sketch for you. The sailor wore brown trousers tucked into scuffed boots. He wore a loose white shirt under many layers, such as a grey waistcoat, multiple belts, and most externally a long dark coat. There were multiple rings on his fingers and at his waist hung a cutlass and primitive pistol alongside various pouches, trinkets, and a long scarf. Upon his head a red bandana was overcast by a tricorn hat, set at a jaunty angle.

Ben glanced up to see a black flag at the mast's peak, flapping in the breeze. Emblazoned on it was a skull and crossbones. "Are you some kind of pirate?"

"The best kind of pirate," said the man, "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

Ben shook his hand, trying not to notice the amount of dirt under the man's fingernails. "Ben Gates," he said. "Thanks for picking me up."

"It was to our mutual advantage," said Sparrow. "Being a captain implies I have a ship, and I would benefit from a crew. I have both of these, but only to a certain extent."

"Is this your ship?" asked Ben.

Sparrow made a face. "No."

"Oh," said Ben, "Alright then. Do you have anything to drink?"

"The water ran out a few days ago," said Jack, conversationally, handing Ben a flask. Ben took a swig. If nothing else, the spirits certainly wetted his throat.

'So is this your ship," Ben gestured at the boat, once he'd drunk his fill.

"Ew. My ship is much bigger and darker of complexion."

"Did you loose it?"

"No," said Sparrow, after a pause that communicated that was exactly what had happened.

"Is that a map?" Ben pointed at a sort of wooden scroll laid out on the bench. The edges were jagged, as if cut, and the writing looked oriental.

Sparrow rolled it up hastily. "After a fashion."

"Let me guess," Ben sighed, "Buried treasure?"

"Perhaps," Jack shrugged, "Rarely what it's cracked up to be."

"Don't know about that, I've found some pretty satisfactory deposits."

"Aren't you so high and mighty then," Jack rolled his eyes. "Might explain whatever the hell that is you're wearing."

"So where we're you headed?" Ben asked, "Before you picked me up."

"Around," Jack waved a hand. "Places. For the moment we're going to stop in at the nearest port. I'm running low on supplies…and floor-space."

"Wait a second," Ben took a second look at Sparrow, and the black flag at the peak of the mast. "What year is this?"

Sparrow told him, and Ben swore.

"What," Sparrow raised an eyebrow, "I hear it's been a great season for crops, if you're into that sort of thing."

"That's not it," Ben shook his head, disbelievingly. "I think I'm in the past."

…

By the time they drifted into dock, Ben had decided Jack's eccentricities were all that there was between himself and a nervous breakdown. The pirate was just surreal enough to make Ben think there just might be another explanation, and that he hadn't truly been transported to the 17th century.

The port was a small one as settlements went, a town of stone and wood proceeding up a neat, forested slope, protected by a semicircle of land curved around them. Jack tied up his ship right between the biggest and grandest galleons and frigates, of which there were perhaps half a dozen.

As Jack was bribing the docking attendant, Ben looked around him in wonder. It was history come to life. Finely crafted sailing ships that smelled of tar and salt. Everywhere men in sailor's garb loaded and catalogued cargo, huge crates, small barrels and the occasional stray goat, while others lounged about gambling and telling bawdy stories. Ben got a few second glances for his ragged tuxedo, but not many. These men of the sea had seen stranger things.

It took Ben a moment to realize Jack had finished, and was swaggering along the dock. He caught up to him as they left they traded the wooden planking for cobbles under their feet. Jack immediately made for a narrow alleyway between buildings.

"I notice you hid your skull-and-crossbones," Ben mentioned.

Jack shrugged. "I've been here before. They're mostly merchants, laid back but not _that _laid back. Still I shouldn't have any trouble." He stepped confidently out of the alley, and right into a group of five men in uniforms reminiscent of the British navy, all blue and gold trim. Two of the men had been shouldering muskets, and both barrels were immediately leveled at Jack. There was a click as the firearms were cocked.

"I recognize you," mused the shortest man with the widest hat and the most powdered wig. Ben guessed he was the commander of the men, taking an armed escort for protection as he conducted business in the less reputable extremities of the community. This business probably began and ended with the local brothel.

"I recognize you from the Company files," the man decided finally. "Jack Swallow, wasn't it?"

"Captain," Jack said. "And Sparrow." He raised his hands to chest height.

"Oh, good," the commander broke into a grin. "I might even get a promotion for this. How does Commodore Bronson sound to you gentlemen?"

The soldiers offered meaningless affirmations and approval.

"I feel the same way," said Bronson.

"What about the other one sir," asked one of the other soldiers, who'd dropped back to flank Ben.

"Oh, I don't care about him," Bronson had eyes only for Sparrow. "This is the man who killed Lord Cutler Beckett himself."

"Not alone, exactly…" Jack squirmed.

"Which means I am perfectly authorized to have you shot right now, watch you die, bleeding in the street, and pack your body back to Port Royal and collect my cash reward." Bronson was positively beaming now. "Let's not waste time-"

"Ah, but authorization and capability are not precisely the same thing mate," Jack said calmly. "And you are forgetting one vital detail. I'm…"

"You're what," Bronson asked, leaning in closer, intrigued.

"In too much a hurry to tell you," Jack blurted, and broke into a full on-sprint, pushing through the soldiers. The muskets fired, but one shot only clipped Jack's tricorn as the other pinged off the cobblestones.

Ben took advantage of the distraction to pull away from the nearest guard and run back down the alley.

Bronson yelled in anger, and drew his sword. He and the soldiers charged after Jack, save for one, who darted down the alley after Ben, drawing his pistol. He fired, but Ben dodged aside into a recessed doorway.

The soldier approached his cover cautiously, gun raised. Having found the door tightly latched, Ben leapt out of the shadows. Ducking under a pistol whip, he placed an uppercut on the soldier's jaw before nailing him in the gut. Ben shoved the man into the wall, disappearing from view before the man got to his feet.

…

Jack was fully aware of the men chasing him. The commander, Bronson was it? Was falling behind, but he still had three ETC soldiers right on his tail.

It wasn't as if he hadn't been in situations like this before, Jack considered as he hopped over a meandering rooster. He'd been in far worse spots. The trick was to be always in motion, physically and mentally. If you know everything that surrounds you, you can find something with which to outwit your opponent.

Such an opportunity presented itself soon. Jack dodged out of the way of the lumbering horse-drawn cart, nodded his apologies to the teenage driver, and seized a small barrel from the back. Twirling, he lobbed the barrel behind him before putting on a burst of speed. The barrel entangled one of the musket-men's legs, strained wood snapping as the soldier went down. The man was covered with flour as the barrel snapped open.

One left behind, two more to go.

High ground, Jack thought, the higher the better. Spying a nearby stall pedaling fake jewelry, he leapt onto the table.

A hand grabbed for his legs, and Jack nearly fell onto the merchant's lap. Jack spun and overturned the table, knocking the second soldier on his rear. Jack was halfway up the rickety ladder seconds after he noticed it, allowing to soldier to take the brunt of the shopkeepers outrage.

The soldier leapt to his feet, ready to follow the bloody pirate, until he noticed something that had fallen from the man's coat in their scuffle. Something old, foreign, and therefore of value…

Once he reached the roof, Jack kicked the ladder over, much to the displeasure of the man already at the buildings peak, where he'd been patching a leak. Ignoring him, Jack took a running leap onto the next building.

This structure was a level taller, and Jack almost slipped off the slanted ledge, a few roof tiles shattering on the ground below him. A musket ball ruined a window just behind him, Jack saw the last soldier pursuing him at street level. Feeling in his belt, Jack dodged around the curvature of the building. He leaned back and fired his own pistol. The ball took the man in the shoulder, spinning him to the pavement.

Jack jauntily stepped onto the next building. He was halfway across that structure when the roofing gave way beneath him. In a cloud of dust and debris he landed in a heap a foot away from a narrow bed.

Jack got to his feet, brushing himself off. He noticed the young woman seated on a nearby stool. Clad in only a shift, she was understandably wide-eyed. Jack gave a little bow, and then raced out the door, leaving her as open-mouthed as when he'd found her.

Jack was halfway to the stairs when an unfortunately familiar figure emerged from the stairwell, sword glinting. Jack stepped back from Bronson as he drew his own sword.

"You know, by some standards, I've died once already," Jack pointed out. "How about we call that good, savvy?"

"No I don't," said Bronson, and lunged. Steel clashed.

Parry, feint, stab, Jack's sword almost flew from his hands, Bronson's strength was surprising. The officer slashed wildly at his head, and Jack ducked. He swung low, and Bronson hopped over the blade.

Jack stamped on Bronson's foot and punched him the hilt of his sword, before darting toward the nearest door. It was locked.

Bronson slammed into Jack, their swords locked. The soldier pressed him against the wall, Jack's sword keeping Bronson's only inches away from his face.

With relish, Bronson flicked a pen-knife from his sleeve. He stabbed, and the tip cut deep into Jack's cheek…twice. With a groan of effort, Jack pushed against Bronson, ignoring the pain and the blood trickling down his own face.

There may have been multiple scenarios playing out in the ETC operative's mind, but being hit solidly over the head with an empty chamber pot was not high on the list.

Jack shoved, drawing a stripe of blood down Bronson's own chin. He planted a boot in the shorter man's chest and shoved. Bronson took the locked door of his hinges and smashed it to the floor in the darkened room beyond. It was fortunately empty.

Jack looked to see the girl in the shift, hefting the chamber pot threateningly. "You've still got to pay me," she hissed.

"Did I miss something?" Jack raised an eyebrow.

"For my ceiling, damn you!"

"Oh, put it on his tab," Jack gestured to Bronson, who lay groaning on the floor. Pushing past her, he hurried away.

Jack had left Mr. Bronson two blocks behind by the time he realized he was missing one of his most valuable possessions.

…

"Bronson's ship is the biggest in the harbor, an ETC warship by the name of _The Indulgence_. The dockhand I talked to told me they're planning to set sail at morning's light, and it seemed like he was telling the truth."

"Thanks, Goyne," Jack passed the man a handful of coins.

"If I might ask," the elderly sailor enquired. "Why does this interest you?"

"I know better than to give you any information whatsoever," said Jack.

Goyne smiled at that, "You wound me."

The pair was seated in a secluded corner of the Calling Siren. There was a pub like this in every port, Jack reflected, a place where the only thing cutthroats and pirates needed to hide were the contents of their coin purses.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, it's been a slow week for business," Goyne weighed the coins in his hand meaningfully.

"I'm looking for someone," Jack admitted. He gave a quick description of Ben Gates.

"Oh that's easy," Goyne intoned. "He just walked in five minutes ago."

Benjamin Gates was hunched over a mug at the end of the table, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He'd ordered what the man two spaces away was having in order to fit in, before realizing he had nothing to pay for it with (he doubted they took credit). Everyone in the place, the swaggering sailors with swords through their belts, hulking brutes with more scars than hair, women with coiffed hair, upturned lips and drooping necklines, looked as though they could eat him alive. The fiddler playing in the corner was just enough off-tune to make him wince.

Ben nearly jumped out of his skin when Jack Sparrow tapped him on the shoulder.

"I've got something to discuss with you," Jack led him over to an empty table in the corner, next to the band. A Frenchmen was fondling two prostitutes at the next table over and paid them no mind.

"You don't belong here," Jack told Ben. "You want to get back to your own time."

"Of course," said Ben, "But I thought you didn't believe me."

' "I said I _probably _didn't believe you," Jack stressed. "But it would explain where you came from, and I've heard odder tales."

"I'm listening," Ben said.

"Well," said Jack. "You remember that map. The oriental one."

"Yes, I remember it."

"It's more than it seems. The Mao Kung map is an incredible artifact and resource. It shows the way to supernatural treasures and even the world beyond life. If all this, than why not the way to the future, it's your best chance at least."

"At least," said Ben, not fully convinced. "What do you want from me?"

"This map is very special to me," Jack explained. "I would appreciate applying it's usage in my near future. But it's been taken by a man named Bronson."

"The one who was chasing you?"

"Precisely," said Jack. "So you will help me get it back, and we will together look into using it to send you where you want to be, savvy?"

"I might at that," said Ben.


	5. Chapter 5: A Battle Fit For A Prince

Chapter five: A Battle Fit For A Prince

Balthazar Blake whispered a choice spell and the sand was gently blown from his clothes and hair. He laughed once, a single bark. Nine-hundred-years and for the very first time in his life he'd considered he just might be getting to old for this.

The heat wasn't scorching, not for a desert. The desert stretched out before Balthazar, and a rocky cliff behind him. The sun was high in the sky, kept company by perhaps two clouds. It was more company than the Sorcerer had; he was entirely alone.

"Where am I?" Balthazar whispered. It hadn't been hard to figure out the hourglass had mystical influence over space and perhaps time, but that didn't give him any coordinates or dates.

Balthazar began to walk, sand crunched under his soles. It wasn't long before he shrugged out of his trench coat, carrying it over an arm. He wasn't dressed for the environment.

Eventually, Balthazar spied a cloud of dust in the distance. As it neared his fine hearing picked hoof beats. Horses, perhaps twenty of them, were coming straight toward him. Balthazar waited to meet the caravan.

The horses were reined in, encircling him where he stood. Arrayed in ancient middle-eastern garb and weaponry, nearly all the company seemed to be soldiers. There was one woman, young and slight, clad in white robes with a jewel at her neck.

The foremost man slid from his horse gracefully. Perhaps in his late twenties, he was slim yet muscular. His dark brown hair hung shaggily, and there was stubble on his chin. He wore a loose white shirt, a dark vest, black trousers and boots. There was a curved blade at his belt, and a second in a harness on his saddle. Judging by the confidence with which he carried himself, he was the man in charge.

"I am Prince Dastan," he said. "This woman is my wife Tamina, Princess of Alamut," he indicated her, "And these are our friends, protectors and royal guard. We mean you no harm."

Balthazar realized he must have looked flustered. The man spoke in an ancient Persian dialect. Balthazar replied, stumbling over his rusty pronunciation, "My name is Balthazar Blake."

"What brings you here, Balthazar Blake?" Tamina's eyes gazed down at him piercingly; her back was completely straight as she slid down from her horse. "The desert can be a dangerous place for one traveling alone. Are you alone?"

Balthazar bowed to her courteously, but he said nothing. He was still trying to remember his ancient Persian.

"I've not seen clothing of that sort before," Dastan seemed genuinely curious. Balthazar also noted an odd, vaguely British, accent to his speech. "Where do you come from, Balthazar Blake?"

Balthazar decided against a full explanation, choosing to play a different card, one he'd found useful in such unfamiliar environments. "I don't know," he said. "I don't remember very much."

"Have you any transport?" Asked Tamina. Balthazar shook his head. "Shelter?" she continued. "Food? Water? Weapons?"

"I don't seem to have anything but the clothes on my back," said Balthazar.

"In that case," said Dastan, "Would you like to come with us? We can drop you off at the next settlement. Perhaps you'll remember a thing or two along the way, and if not it's better than dying alone in the desert."

"Are you sure that's wise?" asked one a curly-haired man, still on horseback. "This could be a trap, he could be lying."

"Or he could honestly need our help," said Tamina.

"Which I do," said the sorcerer.  
>"I think I'll risk it, Bis" said Dastan, giving Balthazar a piercing look. "Besides, he doesn't seem like much of a threat."<p>

"Exactly, my prince," Balthazar lied. He knew that if he really had the inclination, he could kill all these people and barely break a sweat…had he not already been sweating from the heat. Not only did he not want to kill anyone, but Balthazar couldn't help but admit he'd be in serious trouble without these people's help.

"Very well," Dastan helped Tamina onto her horse before climbing astride his own. To a nearby soldier, "See if we can get him some water, perhaps some of the dried meat and fruit. He can ride on one of the pack animals."

Balthazar thanked his would-be rescuers as they set off.

Balthazar pulled up beside Bis, thinking press the man for information. He soothed the man's emotions ever so gently, just to make him more talkative. Balthazar was careful, he didn't want to alert any of the company of his magical abilities. First he asked what year it was, Bis told him.

Balthazar almost fell of his horse. _So I really am in the past, _he thought. _Either that or these people are insane. _

"What brings a company like this out into the desert?" he asked casually. "I wouldn't expect a prince to travel that way."

"Dastan's no ordinary prince," Bis laughed.

"How's that?"

"That's right, you wouldn't remember," Bis paused to gnaw on a crust of bread he'd been eating. "He's not of royal descent, not originally. King Sharaman found him on the streets when he was just a boy, and adopted him into his family. Turned out to be a good choice, not many months ago the Prince uncovered a plot by the King's wisest Vizier, Sharaman's own brother, to murder the king and seize power.

"Its doubtful Dastan himself will ever become king, he's got two brothers ahead of him, the king's own blood. That seems alright by him though, Dastan's got other talents. He's one of the most honorable men I know, and if you ever have the chance to see him fight, well…"

"Very interesting," said Balthazar, trying to remember what he knew sixth century Persian history. He'd lived a long time, but even he wouldn't be born for a few hundred years. Veronica had never felt so far away, and what about Dave. Would Horvath kill them all without his intervention?

Balthazar decided he would not allow that to happen. Somehow, he would make it home and he would stop Horvath once and for all.

The terrain grew rockier around them as they progressed, the path leading them into a wide canyon.  
>"As was asking," Balthazar enquired, "What are you doing out here."<p>

"That's mostly classified," said Bis. "But in recent years Persia's been having some…disagreements with certain outlying settlements. A council's been put together to stop the fighting and find out what they want. Dastan is going to represent the King's interest, he's the only one the traitors will listen too because he shares their blood, or something like that."

Balthazar sniffed the air. Something was wrong; it was almost as though he could sense it. They were not alone. He heard a shifting in the rocks above and-

"Stop!" he shouted, "Look-"

With a thunderous crash a mass of stone gave way from the top of the canyon, spilling hazardously across the canyon before them. Dastan's horse reared as he drew back hard on the reigns. Soldiers coughed as dust billowed up. Through the haze Balthazar saw Tamina grab at something, protecting it. It was a dagger, he realized, a small dagger of ornate, perhaps ceremonial workmanship. It seemed familiar, as though he'd read about something like it some time ago.

The Prince's sword was in his hand as he glared up to the ridge. "Ambush," Dastan shouted as Bis began to calm his startled mount.

A soldier at the edge of the party toppled from his saddle. The shaft of a short black arrow protruded from his chest. Two archers returned fire at an unseen enemy.

Dastan leapt from his mount as a bolt buried in the animal's side. Balthazar caught a glimpse of black on the ridge above as he slid down from his own horse. A Persian guard beside Tamina screamed as an arrow tore through his forearm.

A black arrow soared straight for Bis, but Balthazar tapped it magically, the projectile snapped against a pile of gravel.

Balthazar clenched his fist, the dust around their feet suddenly to the air, forming a smoke-like screen between their party and the snipers.

Balthazar and the Persians took cover in a nearby recess as the rain of arrows halted. Everyone had their weapons out; even Tamina clutched her unusual dagger. The horses shook their heads and brayed in fear. One man was dead, another wounded. Whoever these attackers were, they meant business.

Dark figures moved in the mist, and as it thinned men clad entirely in black robes (even their heads were covered) emerged, swords in their hands. There were at least ten of them and their instantaneous attack was vicious. These were no ordinary bandits, if they were even bandits at all.

Swords clashed. The first Persian to engage the enemy fell to his knees, his throat slashed open. A dark assassin leapt, slamming his feet into a soldier's chest. The man went down and the hostile finished him off.

A Persian raised his bow to avenge his fallen comrade, but the robed man hurled a throwing knife that embedded in his thigh. Blood gushed from the artery. But another Persian took advantage of the enemy's distraction and ran him through. The dark-robed soldier died without a sound.

On the other side of the skirmish, a bandit beheaded one of Tamina's protectors. The princess brandished her dagger resolutely, but Dastan slammed into her attacker before he could assault her. Dastan's shorter sword sank nearly to the hilt between the man's ribs. As another assassin attacked, Dastan parried with his other sword, and shoved the man with his late comrade, tripping him up. A third attacker charged the Prince and the pair became a flurry of swords, four blades between them. The man on the ground reached to pull a long dagger from his boot but Tamina buried her knife in his chest.

Balthazar danced away as an enemy came at him, but Bis was there, knocking the man's blade away with the shaft of his spear. The man threw an elbow, Bis dodged, but barely managed to block his opponents sword strike, gaining a gash on his forearm shortly thereafter.

"To hell with this," Balthazar whispered. People were dying. He raised a hand and a sword flew from a fallen Persian to stab the man Bis was fighting through the back.

The man looked at the sword knifing out of his chest with astonishment in his eyes. Bis had nearly the same look on his face, "What…"

Balthazar said nothing; he just telekinetically yanked the sword from the man's back and sent it spinning across the battlefield to behead a dark attacker. The sword fell at the feet of a Persian who'd just been disarmed. The man scooped up the weapon gratefully and parried a bandit's slash.

A throwing knife spun past Balthazar's nose, and took a gash out of his shoulder. Growling at the pain, Balthazar applied an anesthesia-like charm, and pulled the knife into his grip. The handle felt good in his palm. _I can see why Horvath likes it. _

There were only a few of the black-clad attackers left alive, although they'd efficiently exterminated the large Persian force to but a few members. Finally seeing him as a threat, two of the bandits came at Balthazar.

The sorcerer let loose a plasma bolt, blasting one assassin right of his feet. Bis rejoined the battle with a passion, attacking the man as he stumbled to his feet, robes smoking.

Balthazar dodged, and the second assassin's blade swished over his head. Balthazar grabbed the man's arm, keeping the sword away, and attempted to knife his opponent, who grabbed the sorcerer's wrist in a vise-like grip.

The struggled briefly, Balthazar was stronger. The assassin head butted him in the face, and Balthazar twisted out of his grip, punching the bandit across the jaw, before shoving him back telekinetically. Balthazar's hand went up, and the knife flew true.

Dastan kicked his opponent away with a heel in the chest. The last remaining bandit closed in on him. Dastan stabbed low, slicing into his thigh. The man went down on one knee, and Dastan slit his throat. His other enemy came at him, but was dealt a fatal blow from behind by a Persian soldier.

Only Dastan, Tamina, Bis, Balthazar, and two Persian guards remained standing. Every mysterious attacker lay dead at their feet. _I really hope I was on the right side of that altercation _Balthazar thought, feeling a bit sick.

Balthazar looked up to see the tip of Dastan's sword a foot away from his chest. Behind the Prince a soldier leveled a crossbow at him as well. "You did this," there was distrust on Dastan's face. "What are you? A magician."

Balthazar saw no point in lying. "We prefer sorcerer."

"Did you lie to us?"

"Partly," Balthazar admitted. "I don't have amnesia, but I am a complete stranger to this area. It's a long story but I really am on your side, or at least I don't mean you harm."

"Your assistance was appreciated," said Dastan, "But I am not sure how much I'm willing to trust you."

Out of the corner of his eye, Balthazar saw a black clad-figure drop from the ledge above, a fall of at least thirty-feet, to land unharmed in a crouch. "Sir, there's-" the first person guard to speak was silenced as he was thrown into the air to slam against rock, braking his neck.

The man had never touched him.

The other guard loosed an arrow, which halted in midair, inches from the assassin's palm, before shooting back faster than before, drilling the soldier right between the eyes.

_The man is a sorcerer;_ Balthazar realized the obvious. He was also dangerous and unfriendly enough to two men in a matter of seconds. That left no time to waste.

Balthazar focused, and the man's black robes erupted into flame. Screaming in agony, the man tore his flaming garments away till he stood shirtless, smoke rising off his skin. The man was undisciplined in the magical arts, Balthazar could tell, but he was strong magically, and physically as well if his perfectly muscular torso was anything to judge by.

Twin swords whirling in his hands, Dastan bore down on the sorcerer, but the man flung the rope that had served as a belt around his waist, and it wrapped tightly around the Prince's neck. Dastan fell to his knees, tearing at the cord as it strangled him.

Balthazar's plasma bolt hit the enemy sorcerer in the shoulder, tearing into his flesh, but he reacted quickly, and Balthazar threw himself to the ground as a detonation rained shards of recently ruptured rock down on him.

The stone under him shifted, and sand and gravel surged tightly around his arms and legs, pinning Balthazar.

Balthazar saw the sorcerer seize Tamina in a telekinetic fist, choking her. She was released, dropped unceremoniously, as the sorcerer barely managed to avoid to tip of Bis' spear.

Abandoning the struggle to free himself, Balthazar looked to Dastan, and the cord choking the Prince disintegrated.

The sorcerer punched Bis full in the face, tearing the spear from his grip as he fell. He spun to meet the Persian Prince as Dastan lunged at him and-

The spear went under Dastan's ribs at an upward angle till the tip burst from his back. The sorcerer grabbed the Prince's face, staring into his eyes as the life slowly bled from his body. Someone screamed, and Balthazar glanced at Tamina just long enough to see her brandish the ornate dagger.

The world was suddenly awash with sand and yellow fire. It traced the bodies of the living and darkened the shadow. It was pleasantly warm yet felt as though it might tear Balthazar apart. Through it, it seemed as though God had pressed the rewind button. Dastan flew off the blade and-

All was normal again, or the normal that had been established several seconds ago. Dastan charging, Bis bleeding on the ground and the enemy sorcerer turned, gripping the spear.

Balthazar was still trapped, but he had enough capability to magically wrestle the spear from the sorcerer's hand. Tamina shouted to Dastan, and hurled the ceremonial dagger to him. It flew end over end. Dastan leapt, arching over the plasma bolt that the dark sorcerer had thrown at him, and caught the dagger out of the air as he landed. With one stroke he opened the sorcerer's throat. Blood splattered the sand.

Balthazar tore himself free, looking around cautiously. No new enemies appeared. It figured, whoever had organized the strike force had meant for the sorcerer to be the piece de resistance. Only he, the prince, princess and Bis were still alive.

"We've got to get out of here," Dastan said, helping Bis to his feet. " The horses are all dead, but still got food, medical supplies, shelter and water. Bring what you can carry."

They got to work.

"I hope I never have to fight anyone like that again," Bis said.

"Believe me, as magic-users go, he was a pushover," Balthazar said. He asked Dastan, "Have you any idea who could have organized such an attack."

"Not specifically no," Dastan rubbed his chin. "But I know there's unrest in the area…"

Balthazar crossed to retrieve a mostly full wineskin from a dead soldier, he brushed past Tamina along the way, "Congratulations on that rescue, princess." he whispered. "That's no ordinary dagger."

She looked startle. "Only the bearer is supposed to be aware- Um, I mean, I don't know what you're talking about."

Balthazar shrugged. "You'll I'm more receptive than most to things like that."

"Your help was appreciated," Tamina thanked him. "You're welcome to come along with us, especially if we encounter any more magicians."

"Perhaps I will, just for a while," said Balthazar. "I've got unfinished business and I need to get back."

"Back where."

"To my time."


	6. Chapter 6: This Time It's Personal

Chapter Six: This Time It's Personal

"This used to be a train station, didn't it?" Abigail Chase looked around her.

"Exactly," said Dave proudly, gesturing around his lab, and underground chamber with a high ceiling, decorated with power cords, generators and tesla coils. "The university and the city agreed to let me use it for my research. Some of the equipment can get a little hazardous."

Riley was impressed. "They never cared about me enough in college to set me up with something like this. This is great." He reached out to pat a tesla coil and flinched when he put his hand through a spider web.

"Maybe that's because you could do all your research on a machine the size of a handbag," Abigail said.

"Good point," Riley said.

"It also provides a wide open secluded place for complicated sorcery," Dave continued. "Right, Veronica?"

"Yes, this should be fine," Veronica answered without looking up from her encantus.

Abigail knelt, drawing a line in the dust on the floor with her finger. "If it's so perfect, why does it look like nobody's been in here for months?"

"There is a tiny problem," Dave admitted. "Horvath knows where it is, and it's the absolute perfect place for a trap. I know this from experience."

Just then, there was a knock from upstairs.

"See what I mean, Horvath," said Dave.

"No Dave, pay more attention," Veronica sighed. "The wards I put up would have warned us if another sorcerer arrived. They haven't and neither have they been disabled."

"Right, uh, I'll get it." Dave hurried up the stairs. Abigail and Riley tagged along. The young sorcerer opened the door. "Becky, what a surprise."

"Shouldn't be much of a surprise," the young blonde woman outside smiled. "You texted me, after all. Oh, and I did get pizza."

"Great," Dave helped her carry the trio of square boxes down the stairs. "Abigail, Riley, this is Becky my gi- my girl- my-"

"His girlfriend," Becky finished for him.

"I somehow find that harder to believe than the existence of sorcery," Riley whispered so only Abigail could hear him.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Abigail Chase," she shook hands with Becky.

"I think I've heard of you before," said Becky "Weren't you part of that Declaration of Independence heist a few years back?"

"Something like that."

As they ate, Dave filled Becky in recent events. "I hope Balthazar's alright," she seemed genuinely worried, "And Ben Gates too."

"Balthazar's a big boy, he can take of himself," said Dave, but he didn't sound like he fully believed it.

Veronica had a half-eaten slice of pizza between her teeth as she held her encantus open in one hand, and scrawled out symbols and formulas on the ground with a piece of chalk. "Dave, could you grind up some more of those dehydrated hen's teeth?" She asked.

"Yeah, I'll be right there," Dave hurried off.

"Running around having intrigue makes one hungry," Riley said in his defense, taking his fifth piece.

"I know how you feel," said Becky.

"Really," he glanced at her suspiciously, "Haven't heard about you breaking into the Library of Congress office recently."

"No, that's out of my league, but I did save New York from an army of the undead. Oh, and does that mean you guys really did break into the Library of Congress?" she asked curiously.

"I refuse to answer that question," Riley looked away, "My agent is available to call between five and seven PM every first Monday of the month."

"Alright, that should do it," Veronica looked down at the intricate patterns of chalk, powders, pastes and candles now decorating a twenty-foot circle of the floor. "Nobody step on this, or even sneeze."

"Is this going to bring them back," Abigail sounded skeptical.

"No, but it's a significant step in the right projection. This is going to help me find them. I'm going to send out a signal along the time stream, and any disruptions will bounce back to me."

"A bit like echolocation then." Becky mused.

"Sure," said Veronica, stepping gingerly around a chalk line. "Dave, can you help me with this."

"Um, I never learned this one," Dave admitted.

"That's fine, I'll do everything, you're just going to boost the power and keep the signal from overwhelming me."

"Like a surge protector," Riley said.

"Sure," said Veronica. "Let's get started."

Veronica sat in a space in the center of her arcane chalk art, legs crossed, hands on her knees, eyes closed, breathing slowly. Dave knelt facing her in a circle at the edge of the intricate patterns. He splayed his palms on the stone floor, and bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.

Nothing happened for several minutes.

"Is that it?" Riley commented. "I was expecting some flashing lights or magical gusts of wind, this is just-"

"Magical gusts of wind?" Abigail scoffed. "You've played too much Halo, Riley."

"Halo isn't even about-"

Becky put a finger to her lips, not unkindly.

"But really," Riley whispered, "What if this whole magic thing is a hoax? I mean we saw some crazy, crazy stuff back at the museum, but if I learned one thing from Disney cartoons when I was an impressionable young man it's that alcohol does things to your mind, and even though I hadn't had any champagne yet I was planning on it, and furthermore-"

An eruption of blue flames roared up from the pictograms. They died away within seconds, but Veronica's eyes snapped open. They were like molten gold. She began to chant in a voice far deeper than the one she usually used.

"Riley," said Abigail slowly without looking away, "Perhaps you should stop talking and go sit the corner."

Riley nodded, and followed her instructions to the letter…for almost an hour.

"I was thinking," he told Abigail and Becky, "We've been just waiting here, and we could be doing something more productive. I'll go grab my laptop and find out some more about Horvath, I also wouldn't mind getting out of this tux."

"The eerie ritual wouldn't have anything to do with it," Abigail gestured to the sorcerer's; she had to admit the chanting was getting really annoying. "What about your phone, weren't you bragging about it having, what did you call it, six-pack apps?"

"Yeah, but my computer can do even more, and you brought up the magical stuff."

"I'm just kidding Riley," she smiled. "I've got your back. You go ahead. Bring me back some clothes."

"Um..."

He was halfway up the stairs before Becky chimed in. "Oh, and Riley, you might want to try a search on Drake Stone. He used to be Horvath's apprentice, it might lead somewhere."

"I'll look into that. Thank you ladies, farewell." Riley was gone.

"Is he really as good as he thinks he is?" Becky asked once he left.

"Oh yes," said Abigail. "Better even."

"Do you think he would've stayed if he'd known the ritual would be over this quickly?" Becky mused, as Dave stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Any luck?" Abigail asked.

Dave shrugged. "You'd have to ask Veronica, I'm just the surge protector."

Veronica was kneading her eyes and breathing heavily. Becky went to help her up, but she was too late. "Did you find them?" she asked instead.

"Yes," said Veronica.

"Great, where are they exactly, and when?" Dave asked.

"I can't say in so many words," Veronica admitted. "I wasn't looking at a map of the time-stream at the time. But yes, I locked onto their signal." Veronica popped open a bottle of water and downed in one long swig.

"Can we bring them back?" Dave sounded hopeful.

"We can certainly try," said Veronica. "I'll get on that in a minute, I just need to catch my breath."

"You look like you need a lot more rest than that," Becky pointed out, concerned. "You look drained."

Veronica shook her head. "The longer we wait, the more likely their relocation will be permanent; now or never, as I've heard it said. Besides, I'm nearly six hundred years old; it isn't like I won't be able to dye a few gray hairs."

"Alright," Dave cracked his knuckles. "We can use the same magic circle, yeah?"

"As long as nobody stepped on it," Veronica shrugged as Dave's phone rang.

"It's my mother," he said, scooping it up from the table where he'd left it outside the circle (magic and technology didn't always agree with each other). "I'd better take this.

"Hello," Dave answered the phone.

"Hello David Stutler, you Prime Merlinian you," said a woman who sounded far too young and sexy to be his mother.

"Who is this?" Dave asked, glancing back at the girls.

"My name is Ysabelle, but you can call me master."

"I really don't have time for this," said Dave, "Where is my mother."

"Right next to your father, literally and metaphorically tied up on the living room couch. Right now I'm making full use of their cable plan's pay-per-view movie capabilities, but perhaps later we'll have a conversation. They've got so many lovely knives in the kitchen. Was one of those sets a wedding present from you perhaps?"

"Who the hell are you," Dave hissed.

"When you're scared at night Dave, you look in your closet for Maxim Horvath," Ysabelle said playfully. "When Maxim Horvath is scared at night, he looks in his closet for me. See you soon." The line went dead.

"What's wrong?" Dave hadn't even realized Becky was next to him.

"There's a new piece on the board," he growled. "She's crazy, she knows sorcerers, and it seems like she's got my parents. Sorry Veronica, but there's been a change of plans."

"Oh by all means," said Veronica, "Go do what you need to. Do you want me to-?"

"No, stay here, bring them back," Dave ordered. "We can't afford to lose Balthazar, not now."

Dave was sprinting out the door by the time Abigail caught up with him. "I'm coming with you," she said. "You seem like the kind of man who needs someone to watch his back."

"I can't let you get hurt or, no offense, slow me down."

"Oh, I can handle myself," Abigail said.

Below, Becky was beginning to feel sick to her stomach. She'd never seen Dave like this. People said assertiveness was sexy, but on him it was just scary. "Do you think I should go with them?" she asked Veronica.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather you stayed," Veronica said, sitting down in her circle. "The ritual requires my full and complete attention. I'll be dead to the world and highly vulnerable."

"But I don't have magic," Becky protested.

"We've got more in common than you might think," Veronica smiled at her. "Hell hath no fury compared to women like us, eh?"

"Next you're going to tell me taking my boyfriend's parents is the worst kind of scorn, right?" Becky sighed. Bu Veronica had already begun to chant. It seemed as though the Sorceress was hovering an inch above the floor.

Becky looked away quickly and went to get another piece of pizza.


	7. Chapter 7: Looser Ends

Chapter seven: Looser Ends

The desert was cooler once night fell. Balthazar figured he shouldn't be surprised, but he found it welcome nonetheless. The moon shone down, illuminating the glyphs he'd been absentmindedly drawing in the sand. He'd been trying to reason out a way to return to his point origin, he'd been unable to come up with anything with even a remote chance of success. It didn't help that his encantus was still in the 21st century.

The Sorcerer sat a ways of from where his companions slept, surrounded by gear. A darkened circle marked the remnants of their fire. They'd used it for warmth and to heat some food, but Dastan had insisted that leaving it while they slept could draw unwanted attention. He said he knew from personal experience. Balthazar believed him, if nothing else the Prince of Persia seemed as though he'd been around a bit.

_Speaking of the Prince, _Balthazar heard a shifting in the sand behind him. Dastan sat nearby. He rubbed his chin, looking up at the stars. "I'll take over your watch," he said.

"Seems to me you already have," said Balthazar. "You've been lying there awake ever since you settled down for the night."

"Oh, you noticed that."

"I notice a lot," said Balthazar as the Prince sat beside him.

"I suppose it's just that I still don't trust you," Dastan said.

"Can't say I really blame you, but unlike your friends I do think you believe me."

"How so?"

"When I made that quip about time travel, they laughed it off. They still think I'm just a madman with some interesting skills. But you, you didn't even seem impressed."

"For what it's worth," said Dastan, "I do still think you're a madman."

"Not an unreasonable theory," Balthazar said. "My theory is that you've had your own experiences with magic, ones you'd care not to remember."

"That's being generous," said Dastan. "I saw my father, my brothers, my wife all killed before my eyes. Turns out time can be rewritten and…why am I even telling you this?"

"Sorry," Balthazar winced, toning down the magical influence he'd been directing toward the Prince, "Habit."

"Well I hope you do find your way back," said Dastan.

"So do I," Balthazar whispered.

…

"There's no way this should be able to work," Benjamin Franklin Gates grumbled uncomfortably. Wet sand filled his dress shoes; water (far colder now that it was night) chilled him up to mid-chest while splashing him in the face. His arms ached, and worst of all a particularly poignant splinter was embedded between his left forefinger and thumb.

"There are many statements that I'm glad have never been directed toward my person," said Jack Sparrow ahead of him, "That is decidedly not one of them."

"But there's no way this thing should be this airtight, or not just fly to the surface, or-"

"Silence is a virtue Mr. Gates. A man in your chronological position with a man of my persuasion so ready to assist him would do well to remember that."

Ben quieted down. It was just as well, all he could think of to say next was 'are we there yet'.

…

Fifteen minutes later two soaked men clambered over the bow of _The Indulgence_. Ben collapsed in a pile of rope, breathing heavily. "Remind me to never do that again," he whispered.

"I'll remind you to hold your tongue instead," Jack said, pointing. There were two sentries, one across the ship on the poop deck, leaning on his rifle as he dozed, the other a few yards away, too engrossed in an alcoholic flask to notice the intruders.

Jack crept toward the guard, as Ben tried to stealthily untangle himself from the rope. Jack slipped the pistol from his belt, hefted it and brought the handle down on the back of the man's head.

The guard turned, dazed, opening his mouth to cry out. Ben punched him in the face. As the guard fell to his knees, Jack brought the pistol down twice more. Together, the perpetrators looked over to see if the other guard had awakened. He hadn't. Together they pulled the unconscious man out of sight. Ben reached into the guard's belt and pulled out his pistol. "I'm tired of being unarmed."

"That's what they all say before they blow their own toes off," Jack pointed out.

"Cute. You're the pirate captain, what's the plan?"

"We get below decks."

As they crept down the stairs, Ben couldn't help the fact that the feeling of awe he'd had since slightly before landing at port was growing. History was really coming to life for him, metaphorically and literally. Jack avoided the crew's quarters, and found a storeroom filled with barrels of supplies. Its investigation proved fruitless.

"Wouldn't it be ironic if we went to all this work and didn't find it?" Ben muttered.

"More irritating than ironic in this case," Jack said.

"So…I was expecting you to know where to look."

"Well, why don't we ask someone?" Jack cocked his head, listening to a creak. Someone was walking about below decks, someone who, unlike the trespassers, didn't seem to care about calling attention to them.

Jack opened the door a crack as a drowsy sailor walked past, most likely on his way to the head. Slipping a knife from his boot, Jack pushed the door gently, allowing it to swing open. The sailor stopped, confused, and slowly turned around. Or would have, had Jack not burst from the doorway and seized him from behind in half a headlock, the pirate's sword against the man's throat. "Don't scream," Jack hissed in his ear. His blade brushed the stubble on the man's chin. "You'll regret it. Now I'm going to ask you a question, and you'll answer it, and we'll be on our merry way."

The sailor said nothing, he just glared.

"Your Captain, that fine Mr. Bronson, and I do use 'fine' in the loosest sense of the word, has taken on a new possession, a trifle really, an antique. I want it back. Where is it?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"I thought the presence of my sword might answer that particular inquiry."

"Would you really kill me? I know your kind, you're all cowards."

"Perhaps," said Ben, stepping out of the shadows and pointing his pistol in the sailor's face. "But would you really be willing to die. Sure, you could scream, they might even catch us and you'd be avenged. But is that enough if you aren't there to see it? You don't look like a praying man Mr.…whatever."

Jack raised an eyebrow at Ben, "I thought I was handling this."

Ben shrugged, "Too slow. Answers?"

"I don't know anything about any antique," the man said.

"How about a map?" Jack asked.

"Especially not."

"What about if I cut your throat, will you know then?"

"I think he's telling the truth," said Ben. "This means, of course he's no longer any use to us…and he will scream, so…"

"Wait, one thing," the sailor said quickly. "The captain, it's not unknown for him to be in possession of certain odd, even arcane, objects. When he's got one, far as we can tell, it goes right in his cabin. I never been in there, but that's where you're map woulda been put."

"Thank you," said Ben. "You've been very helpful." He cracked the man over the head with the butt of his pistol.

"Impressive," said Jack, lowering the soldier to the floor. "You've got a talent for this sort of thing. Sure you're not a pirate?"

"Sure," said Ben, "and I really felt terrible doing that, for what it's worth."

"How do you think I feel everyday?"

"Terrible?"

"Nah," Jack scoffed, "I feel great, but I'll feel better once we've got this map."

"No arguments here," Ben agreed.

Ben followed Jack through the cramped, darkened underbelly of the ship, heading for the stairs.

"Alright, you knock out the sentry, I'll pop inside the captain's cabin, and we'll both be over the side and home free before you can say, 'I need this map to get back to the future because I'm crazy', savvy?" Jack revealed his plan.

"Alright, but don't act like you can give me orders just because what I decide to do corresponds with what you suggested." Ben couldn't help but feel he was getting the better part of the arrangement.

The guard at the helm was gazing across the water to the lights of the port. It seemed he hadn't even noticed the other guard had been knocked unconscious and stashed out of sight. They'd been lucky so far, Ben realized as he crouched in the shadows below the stairs. Hopefully their luck wasn't about to change.

Jack tiptoed to the door of the captain's cabin. He was prepared to attempt picking the lock, but was pleasantly surprised to find it creaked open easily. Jack slipped inside as the guard above, curious about the sound, came over to peer down along the deck.

This was when he was seized from behind.

Ben grabbed the man's rifle, from behind, pinning the guard to him, choking him. The guard's sharp elbows drilled into his torso. The guard kicked of the railing ahead, slamming Ben into the wheel.

The guard wrenched away, the rifle flew from their hands, sliding across the wood of the deck. Ben went for it, till he realized the guard was making instead for the alarm bell. The clang rang out in the cold night air, finally confirming that something was not right aboard _The Indulgence_.

Ben slammed into the man instantaneously, and half shoved, half threw him over the railing. The guard plunged into the water below with a shrill scream.

But it was nothing compared to the pair of screams from below.

Jack burst out of the captain's cabin, the oriental map tucked through his belt. At his heels was Bronson, sword in hand. The EITC operative wore his militaristic coat over his night shirt.

Jack spun, unsheathing his sword and blocking Bronson's strike; their blades locked in midair as they pushed against each other.

Ben shouldered the rifle, sighting it to aim at Bronson's back. His finger was on the trigger, it would be so_ easy_. Yet he hesitated, he couldn't do it.

He never got a second chance. Jack sidestepped, sending Bronson to the deck. The EITC captain rolled away as the tip of Jack's sword bit into the wood. Bronson knocked a second slash away with his sword, and rolled to his feet.

Hatches were thrown open as East India Trading Company soldiers burst out onto the deck. Gunshots rang out. Ben dived to the floor as musket balls whizzed over his head, biting into the wheel and the railing.

Jack danced backward across the deck, just managing to parry and deflect the much angered Bronson's sequence of jabs and thrusts.

Ben get to his feet as a pair of soldiers with bayonets charged up the stairs. He hefted his newfound rifle and swung it like a baseball bat, catching the first soldier in the face. The man went down.

The second soldier stabbed with his bayonet. Ben blocked with his own rifle, ramming the blade into the floor. He slammed his shoulder into the guards face, and chopped down on his wrist with his hand, dislodging the rifle from the man's grip. Ben snatched for the firearm as his own clattered away, wrenched from his grasp, and the blade speared the sailor's foot to the deck.

Ben dived back as the man screamed in pain, and was tackled from behind by the remaining soldier. He was rammed into the railing, and struggled to brace himself against it, rather than be pushed up and over. Ben fumbled for the object in his belt.

The crack was nearly deafening. Ben got a face full of smoke and heat, but he still came out the better. His assaulter stumbled away and toppled over, a new hole where his guts were supposed to be. Ben's hands and face were speckled with blood. He suddenly felt sicker than ever before in his life.

Jack leaned back as Bronson's sword whizzed by inches from his face. His face a mask of rage, the man slashed again, but this time Jack caught the blade with his knife. He slashed at Bronson, who was forced to retreat, a long rent down the front of his night shirt. Jack threw the knife, and the captain cried out in pain as it lodged in his bicep.

Jack was immediately seized by two burly EITC soldiers; the one on his right twisted the sword from his grip.

He shouldered the musket. This time, Ben didn't hesitate.

One of Jack's captors was sent reeling with a musket ball in his face. The pirate leapt into action, jabbing his other guard in the face, and grabbing him by the neck, pulling him in front of him. The man shuddered as the projectiles from three guns aimed at Jack struck him in the chest.

Jack launched himself into a summersault, snatching up his sword in time to fight off two more guards.

With a primal, or perhaps confused, yell Ben Gates came swinging in out of the night, clinging to a rope trailing from the rigging. His lower half slammed into an EITC soldier, knocking the man to the ground. Nearly stumbling into Jack, Ben caught his balance and hurled his spent pistol. It spun end over end and hit Captain Bronson in the chest.

Jack grabbed his adversary's rifle, and ran the man through below it. His other attacker could have taken the head from his shoulder, but Ben grabbed the man's sword arm by the wrist, and punched him twice in the face, swinging him about to shove over the side.

Panting, pirate and historian stood back to back, only to find themselves surrounded. Bronson interrupted a row and blue-coated soldiers whose rifles were leveled at two trespassers.

"You fight a good fight," Jack told him.

"Yeah, not that that seems to amount to much," said Ben, trying not to look at the handful of bodies spaced across the ship.

"That's a pirate's life," Jack shrugged.

"Or a pirate's death," Bronson interjected, "Makes me wonder what's so special about this map. Regardless, not even the famous Jack Sparrow will be able to weasel his way out of this little scrape."

"It'd take a miracle, mate," Jack sneered.

That it did.


	8. Chapter 8: A Sharp Interruption

Chapter eight: A Sharp Interruption

Becky flicked the volume on her iPod up a few points. Veronica's throaty chanting was louder than any of Becky's new age music, not to mention how the sound got under your skin like only magic could.

Becky was pacing now, back and forth, away from the circle. She suddenly seemed to have a lot of energy, and nothing to do with it. Not only was the ritual driving her up the wall, but she couldn't stop worrying about Dave, his parents. She didn't think she'd ever seen him that scared. Was it Horvath? Morgana? Something worse? Or, then again, it could be a sick prank call.

Becky felt very, very alone. She wished someone else had stayed behind. Preferably Dave of course, but she'd even settle for that computer guy. What if the ritual went wrong? She wouldn't know what to do. For all she knew about magic it might have already gone wrong. If nothing else, the magic seemed to be affecting the hour glass, if the swirling sandstorm within was anything to go on. Becky was trying not to look at it, every time she felt drawn in, like she couldn't look away. Three times she'd found her face up against the glass. Becky didn't want to repeat the action; as much as she wished Balthazar her luck she had no desire to join him.

Becky jumped at the sudden appearance of a keening buzz. She yanked out her earphones, but that only made it worse. It was as if the sound was coming from inside her eardrums. Suddenly, it stopped. The effect had only lasted a few seconds, but it felt far longer.

There was a concussive blast from somewhere overhead. A billow of dust and debris issued from the stairs. Becky knelt to touch a particularly large shard. It was a piece of the front door.

…

The wards and magical alarms around the abandoned train station had been very well constructed, Maxim Horvath would gladly admit. Much better than the last time he had been here. Still, they'd been disabled easily enough.

Now as Horvath descended the steps, breathing in stale air, he was more on guard than he'd care to admit. Ysabelle had promised Dave Stutler would be long gone, and that grabbing the hourglass would be a simple matter of breaking and entering (assuming the boy hadn't taken it with him, in which case its retrieval would be Ysabelle's responsibility).

Horvath sensed magic. He also heard and then saw it. Veronica floated an inch above the ground within an elaborate diagram, her ethereal chanting echoing eerily in the high-ceilinged room. The hourglass was nowhere to be seen, nor was the Prime Merlinian or any of his little friends, although the empty pizza boxes in the corner suggested they had been there at some point at least.

Horvath turned to Fred, and pulled the sword from its sheath on the undead assassin's back. Fred did not react. "Find the hourglass," Horvath ordered. "I've a little unfinished business of my own."

As Fred shuffled into the shadows (after looking through the pizza boxes), Horvath delicately approached Veronica. He carefully stepped over and around the glowing runes in the floor, careful not to upset them. Interrupting the ritual might awaken the sorcerer, and Veronica was one opponent he did not wish to confront, despite his newly enhanced powers.

Within seconds he stood before her at the center of the runic designs. Veronica floated an inch of the ground, her eyes tightly shut, and her dark hair billowing about her slightly in an immaterial wind. Even after so many years she was beautiful.

What if things had been different, what if she had not spurned him, Horvath wondered. What if he were the content one? He would be the content one. He would never have gone to Morgana, he wouldn't even be here today, perhaps Merlin would still live. He wouldn't have to rely on maniacs like Ysabelle and her pet zombie. He'd have the greatest partner a man could have in all aspects of life. He'd been weak, and she had broken him. Would Balthazar have been so weak, would he have betrayed them? Could he Balthazar's roles in this eternal drama have been reversed? Horvath couldn't help but thinking that whatever the cost, Balthazar would not, could never follow in his footsteps.

Shadows and dreams, they would not serve him well. Best to put them out of his mind. Besides, Veronica's chanting was reaching a crescendo, and he didn't particularly want to see what this ritual was meant to do.

He crouched before her, stroking her flawless cheek. She didn't even know he was there. For the best, most likely. "I miss you," Horvath whispered, "Just not enough to regret this." And he stabbed her through the gut.

The sword went in below her ribs, so sharp it was like a knife through butter. Horvath curved it upward till the tip, stained red, burst out of her back.

Veronica crumpled. Her chanting halted, the illumined runes flared and went out, now no more than chalk. Blood dribbled from between her lips. Her eyes hadn't even opened.

Horvath turned his back. He now heard sounds of a struggle coming from the locker room. The door burst open as a young woman with tangled blonde hair was hurled out to land slumped on the floor. Fred strode out after her, carefully holding the hourglass to his chest with both hands. So he'd found it, good. Unsettling as he was, Fred had been just as helpful as Ysabelle had promised.

Horvath walked to the girl. He remembered this one, she was an effective hostage and one he regretted not killing. Becky Barnes? That sounded right. The Prime Merlinian's romantic lead and a major contributor to sabotaging the ritual of the Rising.

He wild eyes took in Horvath and Veronica, lying in her own blood with a sword still through her stomach.

With a scream, Becky threw herself at him. Horvath simply swung his cane upward. The handle bashed her in the jaw, Becky slammed back to the floor, blood on her face.

Horvath stroked the head of his cane. Becky was pulled into the air, where she hung, immobilized, her toes inches from the floor.

"I can't say that you alone as Veronica's protector was quite what I expected," Horvath told her conversationally. "Ysabelle must be doing her job well. Regardless, it makes things easier for me. We've the hourglass and now we have you. If there's one thing I've learned it's that when you're challenging Dave Stutler, hurting his little friends is the way to get ahead."

Becky said nothing, which wasn't particularly surprising considering the magic had her completely frozen.

"I hope you won't object to playing the part of a little extra leverage one more time?" Horvath asked her. "No? Well all right then."

With Becky floating behind him, and Fred following the hourglass, Horvath made for the exit. He didn't look back. There was nothing for him here.


	9. Chapter 9: All Fired Up

Chapter nine: All Fired Up

"Next time, I should drive," said Abigail Chase. "If I had a dollar for how many laws you've broken in the last few minutes I could buy a textbook or something."

"You'll excuse me if I don't really care right now. At all," Dave Stutler did not look away from the road. Nor did he take his foot of the gas. Balthazar's car growled like a jungle cat as it navigated signs, partitions and less enthusiastic traffic. Dave drove like a person whose parents were being held hostage by a maniac, which wasn't a surprising reaction actually. Against all odds he managed to avoid any accidents, incidents, and police attention. It was amazing how far a little sorcery could go.

Dave was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. _Just a few more minutes_, he thought. _Just a few more minutes and I'll be there and I'll be able to fix it. Able to fix everything like I always do, like I always can. Right, who am I kidding, I am soooo scared right now._

"So, do you think Veronica will be able to bring Ben and your friend back from wherever they went?" Abigail said conversationally.

"I hope so," Dave took a sharp and illegal turn after missing his exit. "Veronica's powerful; she should be able to do it. She's better with complex spells than Balthazar actually."

"I hope she'll be alright, and Riley and your girlfriend too. Maybe Riley will come up with some information about Horvath, you never know. He is good at that kind of stuff."

"Yeah, not really my priority right now," said Dave. _Just a couple more minutes._

"I've found that when everything around you is going to hell, everything is usually connected. You just have to find the patterns. Ben is good at patterns."

"Good for him. Right now the street pattern is occupying my attention." Dave turned onto a street of older middle class homes.

"Seems like a nice neighborhood," said Abigail.

"Okay," said Dave. He pulled up in front of a gray house halfway down the street. He'd spent most of his childhood in that house. He and Becky had been over to dinner here a week or so ago. It felt like so long ago now. _If only the good times could last instead of the bad ones. _The exterior didn't look out of the ordinary

Dave threw open the car door. "I'll just be a minute. Stay in the car." With that he bolted up the steps.

"Right," said Abigail, as the door at the top of the steps opened, "Like I'm going to stay in the car."

Dave was halfway across the yard when the door opened. It was his mother; she looked healthy enough, if a bit tired. "Good, you're finally here," she said. "She said she'd let us go when you came, that woman, and-"

She was interrupted when the house exploded. The ball of flame enveloped the home in an instant, Dave's mother was vaporized. Burning debris scattered across the yard and neighboring homes. A flaming beam slammed down on the hood of the ghost, cracks spread across the windshield on impact.

"Maybe I will stay in the car," Abigail whispered as she watched Dave Stutler plunge into the inferno.

Dave screamed, and the fire roiled around him. He could feel the heat, and the smoke stung his eyes, but a vacuum shield protected him from the worst of the injury.

It had taken a second, perhaps too. His home was gone and his mother was dead. Who could do something like that, who would _dare_ do something like that.

"Hello David Stutler." It was the woman from the phone call. "I'm behind you, in case you were wondering. I assume you're looking for me, as I'm afraid your teddy bear perished in the blaze. Oh, and your mother too, now that I think about it."

She standing in a sort of bubble surrounded by flame, a surprisingly young and pretty woman with silvery hair. She wore black, and a stainless steel knife glinted in her hand. Her arms were folded, and Dave's father hung limp, unconscious, in the air behind her.

"Ysabelle," Dave hissed, stomping toward her as the frame of the house broke down around him.

"You think," she snorted. "Stay right there, I've got a few questions for you, or I kill your father. First, you really are the Prime Merlinian, yes?"

"Yes," Dave was shaking now, "And I am going to kill-"

"Sure you are," said Ysabelle. "Guess that explains why you're able to survive this heat without a sorcerer's ring. Very perceptive of you."

"Wait, you have no ring," Dave noticed.

"Well, not a ring exactly," Ysabelle reached for the chain at her neck and pulled out a black stone, set in silver, before letting it slip back out of sight between her breasts. "It works. Next question, the hourglass, it is at your old science laboratory haunt, is it not?"

"No."

"Really?" she tapped his father's nose with the knife.

"Alright, yes it is."

"Good."

"Is there anything else you want to ask before I tear you into pieces?" Dave growled. He had never really wanted to kill anyone before, not Drake Stone, not Horvath, not even Morgana, though he hadn't really known her. Not like he wanted to kill this woman now. He wanted to see her burn, the flesh scorched from her bones, just like she'd done to his mother.

"No," Ysabelle's brow furrowed in thought. "I think I'm done here." And with that she opened his father's throat with a flick of her wrist.

Ysabelle jumped as a plasma bolt shot the knife of her hand. She barely had time to blast Dave's father's corpse away into the flames before the Prime Merlinian slammed into her.

Her vacuum bubble collapsed as Dave's hands tightened around her throat. She didn't struggle as he rammed her into the ground, straddling her midsection. Keeping himself shielded, Dave reached out to influence the flames around him, focusing them on his quarry.

Ysabelle's flesh skin blackened and and cracked, tearing away, her hair flared, her clothing smoldered. Dave couldn't look away as the flesh melted away under his hands. Tears evaporated on his cheeks. It sickened him, and yet he couldn't, wouldn't make himself stop. Not till he stopped seeing his parents murdered in his mind's eye. Not until there was nothing left.

He didn't get the chance.

Ysabelle opened her lipless mouth. "Well," her voice was slurred by her injuries, "That's enough of that." She brought her hands together in a clap.

Dave was thrown off her and through what remained of the wall, which promptly collapsed on top of him. Clambering out of the debris, Dave was unable to glimpse anything through the firestorm. Except for a particularly large plasma bolt headed right for his face.

Though his shield managed to keep it from harming him, the impact hurled Dave through another wall and into the yard, where he slammed into the earth.

As Dave got to his feet, a burning spear of wood arched toward him. He ducked, knocking it aside magically, and blasted away a wider board that had also been hurled at him.

Ysabelle emerged from the flames, her hair growing out to its original length before his eyes. Her skin was pure, unharmed, and almost entirely visible. Dave summoned a ball of plasma, but it exploded in his face, as the ground below him shifted, the soft earth swallowing his right leg up to the knee, while the grass curled around him like small, and surprisingly strong, fingers.

"I'll be with you in a minute," Ysabelle bit her lip in concentration, looking down at herself. The scraps of her burnt clothing stretched, shifted and knitted together to better preserve her modesty. "That'll do. Now where were we?"

"How…" Dave had never seen a magical healing like that. "What are you?"

"Fine, thanks," said Ysabelle, "If a little underdressed. I just killed your parents; it's the least you can to offer a little more stimulating conversation."

Dave roared, as he tore free of the yard. His energy blast broke against Ysabelle's shield, but his swinging punch caught her right in the side of the face, sending her stumbling back. "Yes," she said, spitting out a tooth even as an identical canine pushed from her gum to fill its void, "That's more like it."

Ysabelle's jab went in under Dave's chin, and he felt as he'd never be able to breathe again. Gasping, he saw her fist in the corner of his eye, and rolled with the punch, taking it on the side of the head. Like all sorcerers, she was far stronger than she looked.

Dave threw a punch, but Ysabelle caught his wrist, slammed her palm into elbow, and twisted. There was a sound like a gunshot as Dave let off a small sonic blast in her face, and he pulled free.

The ground exploded upward in front of Ysabelle, showering her with dirt and gravel. "Ooh, that's intimidating. Ergo, not," she coughed. Ysabelle ducked as Dave swung a flaming piece of wood at her head.

Dave stabbed the torch, the jagged burning wood went into the meat of Ysabelle's shoulder, and she twisted, yanking the torch out of his hands. Her bare foot jabbed into his gut with more force than he would have thought possible.

As Dave crumpled, Ysabelle grabbed him the shoulders and threw him over her hip. Dave hit the ground and rolled into the street.

Ysabelle pulled the torch from her shoulder and blew on the embers. Dave shielded himself as flames crackled around him.

He could here emergency sirens; he would have to finish this quickly if he wanted to avoid any unpleasant memory modification. As if finishing this quickly was even an option, he could tell Ysabelle's shoulder was already healing. Dave reached out and telekinetically seized a manhole cover, hurling it at his enemy. Ysabelle stepped to the side, allowing the metal discuss to crash into the remains of the house behind her.

A plasma bolt crashed into Dave's shield. Then another, and another. He was pressed back by relentless onslaught, as Ysabelle strode toward him, hurling fistful after fistful of energy.

There was a horrible screech followed by a dull thud. Dave opened his eyes to see Rolls halfway up on the lawn, its hood crumpled in. Abigail Chase clambered out of the driver's seat. "I told you I should drive." The car behind her promptly exploded.

Abigail seemed alright when Dave helped her up. She was bleeding from multiple scrapes and slightly singed, but she'd be alright. The car, however, was a burning wreck. A fire engine turned the corner at the far end of the street. "Who was that?" she asked, dazed.

"She's like nobody I've ever fought before?" Dave admitted. He looked around for Ysabelle, but she seemed to have disappeared.

"Where'd she go?" Abigail asked. There was a muffled explosion from somewhere nearby, and the emergency sirens petered out. "Oh, that's where."

Abigail's phone vibrated, she pulled it out of her pocket. "It's Riley," she said. She answered.

Dave stood still, the flames of his parent's home reflected in his eyes. He realized as Abigail hung up that he could have listened to the phone call, he just hadn't been paying attention. "Good news?" He could use some of that right now.

"Some of it, yes," said Abigail. "But they broke into your lab. The hourglass is gone. Your girlfriend is gone and Veronica is dying."

"Let's get back there, then," said Dave quietly.

"I'd have figured you for going after that witch-person."

"What's the point," said Dave. "It's not like I can even beat her anyway."

First Balthazar, then his parents, not even their house or car was left. Now Becky and Veronica. It was as if he no longer had any emotion, he could only watch everyone he loved torn away.

The mailbox's splintered post gave way, and it slammed down on his foot.


	10. Chapter 10: Back in the Future

Chapter ten: Back in the Future

"I do enjoy this house, Maxim," said Ysabelle. "You really must try the Jacuzzi, it's most satisfying."

"Another time perhaps," Horvath said with mock sincerity. He rolled his cane between his hands.

He was standing in the late Drake Stone's master bedroom, a ridiculously comfortable and avant-garde affair with a huge bed and spacious wardrobe, each outfit gaudier and more leathery than the last. The wall across from the bed was covered by an ornate wooden etching, one of Stone's assorted self-deifying portraits. _Sorcerers, true sorcerers are a dying breed,_ Horvath thought to himself. _True, elegant sorcerers, not what passes for our kind these days. Pitiable performers, inhuman monsters, invincible psychopaths and whimpering whelps. Balthazar, you and I truly stood alone, and now perhaps I stand alone in your stead._

"Tell me, do I still smell like smoke?" Ysabelle brushed up against him in a way that would have been flirtatious if it were anyone else. She wore only a soft white bathrobe which had clearly not been tailored to her frame. Her hair was damp; steam still billowed from the master bathroom.

"Yes," said Horvath.

"Good, I was hoping I hadn't washed it off. Natural musk, and all that," Ysabelle moved behind a privacy screen to dress. "You did retrieve the hourglass, correct?" she asked.

"Yes," said Horvath. "We also retrieved the Prime Merlinian's little flame. She's a useful bargaining chip, I've used her before. She's in the spare room down the hall."

"And you left her alone?" Ysabelle peered around the screen to raise an eyebrow, Horvath decided to ignore her bare shoulders. "Not the best idea, I know these plucky girl types."

"Fred is with her."

"I underestimate you again, I must stop doing that, it won't help the day you eventually do try and kill me."

"That warms my heart."

"Anyway," Ysabelle exited the screen. "Hostage, a classic resort. Makes me glad I didn't kill him." She wore clothing adapted from Drake Stone's extensive stores, some of which were surprisingly feminine in tone (it's amazing what company a bit of money can buy). Leather boots, tight dark jeans, and a black tank top beneath a red leather jacket.

"You fought the Prime Merlinian?" Horvath was mildly curious.

"Oh yes, he's simultaneously better and worse than I expected."

"I found that as well. I'm surprised you didn't kill him, I'd think a woman of your specific talents would have a chance against him."

"Certainly," said Ysabelle. "It just didn't feel like the right time. He was emotionally compromised; I was having a wardrobe malfunction…"

"Very well, but eliminating our adversaries should be first on our agenda."

"I agree," Said Ysabelle, "and I've given the matter some thought. The Prime Merlinian knows me now, he hates me, he wants to kill me whatever the cost, and he thinks me invincible. In order to prove himself wrong and save his little girlfriend, he'll play every last card, and I can take it. I'll destroy him."

"I hope you're right," said Horvath, "For both our sakes."

"That's so sickeningly sweet of you, Maxim. No wonder you haven't had a date in ten years."

"I was in a _jar_ for ten years."

"Exactly, and I'd hate to break your record. Oh, and Maxim."

"Yes, Ysabelle."

"My eyes are up here."

…

"Balthazar, I thought I'd never see you again," Dave backed down from a brief and entirely one-sided embrace (his side). Beside them Ben Gates and Abigail Chase gave no sign of letting up so soon.

"The spell must have taken just as Veronica was stabbed," said Balthazar grimly, "So, yes, we're back."

"And very much needed," said Riley. "With both of those crazy sorcerers that Dave can't stop."

"I was _trying_," Dave shot him a look. "Ysabelle is invincible. Also, she killed my parents."

"You don't seem very upset- Hey!" Riley leapt up as the old wooden chair he was sitting on burst into flames.

"Save it for the woman, Dave," Balthazar warned, extinguishing the flames. "Where is this Ysabelle and Horvath for that matter?"

"I don't know."

"Can you really not do anything without me?" Balthazar raised an eyebrow.

"I'm the apprentice, remember?"

"I've got a place," Riley butted in, "A house. It's recorded as owned by Drake Stone but nobody, and I mean nobody, has gone in there for months. Suspicious, no."

"Yes, let's go," Dave was already moving toward the lab's exit.

"Patience, Dave," Balthazar warned. "You can't risk running in half-cocked again. You lost your parents, Veronica is dying, do you want to lose your girlfriend too?"

"I can't just wait and do nothing!"

"Where is Veronica, anyway, did you take her to a hospital?" Abigail asked.

"They would do little good for someone like her," said Balthazar. "She's unconscious in a storage room, as magically secured as I can make it. Magic is a powerful thing, she may heal."

"So she'll be alright?"

"Probably not," Balthazar's face was as emotionless as his tone.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Ben asked, "no one's mentioned our, um, guests."

"Right," said Riley. "I really had no idea how to explain them over the phone. Come out guys."

Two figures emerged from the shadows, but they might as well be appearing from an ambitiously illustrated history book. The first was a handsome young man with long brown hair and muscled arms, with a pair of short swords on his back, dressed in what could have clothed a SWAT team had they existed in the ancient Middle East. The other wore layers of increasingly eccentric clothing, from the long coat to the bone that was one of many objects tied into his shaggy hair. There was a sword at his belt (and a scarf, and a compass, and…) and he wore a tricorn hat atop his head. Perhaps what the pair had most in common was a mutual air of nervous confusion.

"Veronica's spell went a little haywire when she was stabbed, these two were in close enough proximity to get pulled forward along with Ben and I," Balthazar explained.

"Captain Jack Sparrow, Mr. Merlinian," said the pirate, doffing his hat.

"Hello," was all Dave could say.

The Persian warrior spoke in a dialect Dave couldn't understand, and Balthazar explained, "He greets you as well, and offers his help in retrieving the hourglass so it can be used to return him to his own time."

"Sure, absolutely," Dave decided just to go with it. Compared to his parents, Becky, Veronica, two stowaways didn't seem all that important.

"We need to recover the hourglass," said Balthazar. "With that artifact, Ysabelle can rewrite history, change the past. We cannot allow her to remake the world in her image."

"Sounds like we also ought to take those two sorcerers down," said Abigail. "Imprisoning them in your stacking doll prison might be in order."

"We need to save Becky, also," said Dave.

"Priorities, Dave," Riley cautioned.

"I will do everything I can to save and protect her," said Balthazar, "But if necessary the rest of the world comes first."

"I feel so lost," Ben looked at his feet.

"Imagine how we feel," Jack told him.

Dastan spoke, and Balthazar translated. "He says 'Could we please depart to retrieve the hourglass, so I might leave this place'."

"I'm kind of enjoying myself actually," Jack admitted. "What do all the metal cones do?"

"Exactly what I want them to," said Dave, and his phone rang.

"Becky?" Riley looked over his shoulder at the caller ID.

"We'll see," Dave answered the phone. "Hello."

"Dave!" it was Becky. "I'm alive. Hurt, but alive. This woman's a psycho. Don't-"

"Well, that's enough of her. Hello Dave," said Ysabelle, apparently taking the phone.

"If you harm a hair of her head I will-"

"Yeah, yeah, heard it all before."

"What do you want?"

"I want you," said Ysabelle. "I've been thinking it over, and you really are a work of art. So many different facets. You pack a punch, you're smart, you do magic without a ring, but at the same time you're a total moron. I absolutely have to kill you."

"Excuse me?"

"We're going to make a trade. You give yourself up. Your girlfriend walks free. You die. We all go home happy, some more existentially than others."

"I don't make deals with murderers. You killed my parents and I'm going to kill you, you piece of-"

"Now, Dave," Ysabelle scolded. "How're you going to become a transcendent Christian archetype if you keep talking like that? Meet me where it all began in one hour."

"Arcana Cabana?"

"No, not that far back; the museum, main hall. One hour or I permanently spoil Becky Barnes pretty face. And arms, and legs and torso."

The click was audible.

"That sounded ominous," said Riley.

"Talking to yourself is habit-forming," Jack warned, "I do it frequently."

"That's a cell phone," Riley explained, "It's like a portable phone."

"That sounds obscene," Jack scoffed, "Please tell me more."

"Balthazar," said Dave. "Everyone. How do I, do we, beat someone who is invincible."

"I can't really say," said his mentor. "I don't feel like I've ever met anyone who truly was invincible."

"It's simple really," said Benjamin Gates. "You have to outthink them."


	11. Chapter 11: Showdown

Chapter eleven: Showdown

He could have disabled the wards around the museum's entrance designed to notify the caster of the presence of anyone arriving, but Dave still wasn't as comfortable with some of the subtler arts. Besides, it didn't suit his purposes.

The museum had been closed off for investigation of the apparent 'bombing' which had torn one of the galleries apart, however there was little sign of any security guards, intelligence officers and police detectives, save for the yellow tape across the doors and the cars out front. They had effectively disappeared, Dave assumed Ysabelle had cleared the scene, he could only hope she hadn't killed them all. He wouldn't put it past her. Their only mistake was to be in her way.

Along with plastic tarps and a few carts of forensic tools, glass cases in the main hall enclosed several mummified remains, a mere fraction of the semi-preserved corpses uncovered in the excavation of Cibola, prime artifacts for the 'X marks the spot' exhibition the museum was now hosting.

Dave wasn't alone. Abigail Chase and Riley Pool on his right, Jack Sparrow and Prince Dastan on the left; he couldn't help but thinking that had his life been a film, this would have been an ideal moment for some judicious slow motion and dramatic music.

"Feel free to stop right there," Ysabelle's voice made Dave feel like tearing his hair out by the roots. At the end of the hall two stair cases curved up to a balcony, where Ysabelle herself stared down, twirling a roll of duct tape on her finger. Beside her, Becky Barnes was the obvious recipient of the thick grey adhesive, gagged and bound hand and foot. Behind the pair the hourglass rested on a black stone slab, gleaming in the soft light, as if to say that Ysabelle had no need to protect it, her victory was that assured.

"Well that's not so complicated," said Jack, yanking the pistol from his belt. The crack echoed through the high-ceilinged chamber. Ysabelle's head rolled back, a hole in her forehead. She looked dazed for a second, as the skin stitched itself back together. The pistol ball plunked down into her hand, as her head wound sealed entirely.

"I've never seen anything like it," Riley's jaw hung open.

"I have," said Jack, "But perhaps this will be more difficult than I thought."

"Don't feel so bad, I never could have made that shot," Dave shrugged.

Ysabelle put the ball in her pocket. "Now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way," She held her open hand to Becky's cheek, the air shimmering around her fingers. "Everyone who is a Prime Merlinian, keep your hands down and walk slowly up the stairs to me."

"Let her go first," Dave demanded. "Why should I do this your way?"

"Because I'm perfectly happy to blow her head off before I jump down there and kick your ass."

Dave was halfway up the stairs before he could think of a suitably witty retort.

"No, how dare you, I love that apprentice like a brother!" A man with shaggy blond hair and a leather trench coat burst through the doors. A ball of light shot from his general direction, and evaporated on impact with Ysabelle's shield.

"Balthazar Blake, what a surprise," Ysabelle grinned widely. She tossed her duct tape aside, and the roll unraveled to wrap around Dave, tripping him up. He fell hard on the stone stairs, the shield around the trench-coated sorcerer evaporated.

Ysabelle spun to see a man in a tuxedo attempting to snatch the hourglass. She decked him hard and he spun over the slab. She hurled a plasma bolt at the sorcerer below, who yelped and dived for cover as it shattered the tile near his feet. It looked like a dead rat was mixed in with the shards. A second glance revealed it was a blonde wig. "What in the-" she shoved Becky over the balcony.

Dave put on a magical burst of speed and slid on his knees to catch her. He gave her a peck on the cheek before running back up the stairs, shooting a thumbs up to Ben Gates, who was tripping over his trench coat.

Above, Ysabelle was thrown upward to slam into the ceiling as Balthazar came out from behind the slab, "Definitely worth the haircut."

A concussive blast sent Balthazar spinning into the wall. Maxim Horvath emerged from a nearby gallery in time to watch Ysabelle slam back into the floor. He blocked a plasma bolt from Balthazar with ease.

Ysabelle reached out over the main hall, uttering a few focus words under her breath. The glass in the many cases shattered as their long dead occupants began to sit up and clamber out of their containers with surprising agility. They moved in concert, some cutting off the rooms exits while others moved to intercept the non-sorcerers.

"I had a dream like this once," Riley was exceedingly nervous.

"I had a real life experience like this a couple times," said Jack, unsheathing his sword. "You should see the other fellows."

A sonic wave cracked, throwing Ysabelle off her feet. Blood trickled from her ears, as the Prime Merlinian leapt, blue fire curling around his hand. He slammed down on top of her, the magic flame tearing half of Ysabelle's face momentarily off.

Meanwhile, Balthazar ducked under a bolt from Horvath's cane, and rammed into him. The pair slammed onto the stone slab and the hourglass went skittering away across the floor. Balthazar pulled at the cane in Horvath's grip, simultaneously punching Horvath in the face.

Ysabelle seized Dave's neck in a vise-like grip. He began to choke, but continued to punch her, again and again. The skin at his neck began to redden and blister as she heated the air around her hands. He blasted her arms away telekinetically, pinning them at her sides.

A thin laser-like beam of plasma issued from the cane's jeweled tip, Balthazar twisted his head away as it sliced deep into the stone. The jewel began to glow. Balthazar threw up a shield, but the blast threw him away from Horvath and into the wall.

Dave tore at the collar of Ysabelle's shirt, catching hold, he tore a long rent, exposing the silver chain he was looking for. With a sharp yank, the chain broke and he held her gemstone in the palm of his hand. He took her punch straight in the face, not even trying to block.

Nearby, Balthazar crouched, ready, as Horvath powered up another powerful energy blast. "Tag team," Dave shouted, and shoved Ysabelle in the chest, throwing her off her feet.

"What the- okay, alright," Balthazar rolled away as Horvath's energy bolt went straight through Ysabelle's torso and out the other side. Smoking slightly, Morgana's apprentice hit the wall hard, and slid down, unmoving.

Dave pressed Horvath back with a series of powerful plasma bolts, while Balthazar poured blast after blast into Ysabelle's gemstone. It cracked and splintered the silver casing long since torn away.

"Are you alright?" Ben Gates asked, helping Becky to her feet.

"No," said Becky, she was bruised and scrapped all over, and had a nasty shiner over her right eye. "But I'm alive, which is more than can be said for those people," the shrillness of her voice rapidly increased till a pair of cold dead and surprisingly strong arms wrapped around Ben from behind. He struggled, his arms pinned to his sides, as Becky punched and kicked at the cadaver.

Ben twisted and slammed the zombie against the wall, finally breaking free. His roundhouse punch tore its jaw off. The rest of the head came loose with a sickening twist. Becky kicked it across the room, where it came to rest at Riley's feet.

"I'm really not cut out for this kind of work," he yelped, diving back out of the way as Jack disemboweled a zombie with a twirl of his sword.

"Hit them with a monitor or something," Abigail shouted as another corpse grabbed her arm. She seized the bone and twisted tearing the arm clean off and bludgeoning the corpse over the head with it.

The headless zombie lunged at Becky, who managed to lurch out of the way. She kicked at it, and the torso caved in under her foot, even as its hand wrapped around her ankle. There was a hiss of steel through the air and the limb was sliced clean off. Dastan severed the other arm with one sword and bisected the zombie with the other before twirling both blades to rend the creatures back open. Leaving it twitching, with nary a glance at Becky, he was moving.

Jack was clever and leaned with a blade, and Abigail was vicious in her own way, but none of them could fight like the Persian Prince. He leapt high and kicked off the wall, spinning into a backflip as he cut both arms off a zombie. Landing on his feet he swept the legs out from under one zombie, and took off half another's face with a spinning kick before slicing it from shoulder the hip, before planting his sword deep into the downed foe.

Riley slipped on a patch of broken glass and accidently tackled a zombie to the ground. Another skeleton seized Abigail from behind and clamped its jaw over her shoulder with enough force to tear her skin. Her scream was enough to call Ben to action, even though a small crowd of the undead separated them, he charged. Zombies and their grasping hands surround him as he shoved and kicked, watching history crumble before him as he punched its bony face in.

Two waves of energy pushed against each other, yielding only inches. Completely focused, Dave and Horvath little attention to the room slowly eroding around them. Horvath's blast surged forward as Dave's shield faltered, but the stone slab slid across the floor to slam into his back. As Horvath went sprawling, Dave did his best to the shield himself from the worst of the blast which shattered the light bulbs and cracked the floor, although the impact was enough to throw him into the wall.

Horvath scrambled to his feet, snatching up his cane, but it was knocked from his grasp as Dave kicked it away. Horvath swung at him, and Dave blocked with his forearm, leaving him open as Horvath's left fist drilled upward into his gut. Horvath shoved him away and went for the cane, but it flew to Dave's grasp.

Invisible clamps held the now helpless Horvath in place. "Balthazar, any time now," sweat dripped down Dave's brow as he held the cane level.

"Indeed so," Balthazar turned away from Ysabelle's pendent, now nothing but dust and splinters. He removed a nesting doll from his coat.

"Oh, bother," Horvath eyed the Grimhold. "That's one artifact I've little desire to reacquaint myself with."

Below, Ben Gates slammed into a corpse, flipping it over his shoulder to the floor. Another zombie grabbed him in a headlock, while another approached, he punched at it, and its mouth went around his fist.

"Ben," Dastan shouted, throwing one of his swords to the imperiled historian. Not trusting his ability to catch the blade, Ben twisted, allowing it to run the zombie behind him through. Seizing the sword, he kicked the knees in of the zombie in front of him. Its head came off, still clamped over his hand, and he spun to backhand the other zombie in the skull, both craniums shattered. The headless zombie charged, but Ben danced back, yanking out the sword, and disarmed the creature.

The amount of dismembered, albeit bucking and writhing, corpses now far outnumbered the mobile undead. A monster grabbed Abigail by the shoulders, snarling silently in her face, as she pressed it away. Riley brought his knee up through its gut.

The top half of a zombie grabbed Dastan's leg. He pulled its head off with his bare hand, and sliced it down the middle. Jack Sparrow split the last zombie's skull with his sword. A few more flicks of the blade and its assorted segments lay twitching on the ground. "That wasn't so bad," he said genially.

"Do you hear that?" said Riley, as Ben returned Dastan's sword. "It sounds…metallic."

On the balcony above, Horvath seemed to be becoming less and less tangible as Balthazar chanted, the open Grimhold clasped between his hands. Until a knife flew from Horvath's coat, to the sorcerer's own surprise, whipping toward Dave. Dave knocked it away with the cane, but Horvath was released and fell to his knees.

The Grimhold was kicked out of Balthazar's grasp, bouncing over the balcony. Ysabelle seized him and with strength unlikely from a less magical woman of her type, flipped Balthazar over to slam him to the ground before drilling him in the chest with an elbow.

Plasma burning around her fists, Ysabelle charged at the stunned Prime Merlinian, slamming into him. Dave's ears rang as the stone and masonry behind them broke and gave way under the force of their magic.

"I think I'm going to need a bigger boat," said Riley, staring as the assortment of medieval suits of armor, mannequins in revolutionary war gear, clay warriors and samurai armor, filed into the room.

There was ominous clunk from behind, and Becky turned to see the pirate, Jack Sparrow, wrestling with the doors. "They're locked," he explained. "Just checking. I'll be right over there, seeing if there's another exit," he disappeared into the adjoining gift shop.

Dastan rolled his eyes. He stepped forward to meet the enemy, pulling the twin swords from his back.

A wave of energy from above tore the medieval suits of armor apart before the Persian Prince. On the balcony, Horvath seized Balthazar from behind, hooking the cane under his neck. Balthazar kicked off the railing, propelling himself backward on top of Horvath. A blast of sparks hit Horvath in the side of the face, and Balthazar rolled free.

He looked up barely in time to see Horvath diving with the knife he'd scooped off the floor. Balthazar locked arms with his opponent, forcing the blade to remain inches from his face. They'd been evenly matched at one time, for millennia in fact, but Balthazar had to admit that in sheer power, Horvath had a significant advantage. If he didn't end this quickly he would lose, and it was all too likely Dave, surprisingly resourceful as the boy was, wouldn't be able to triumph over Ysabelle without his help.

The Grimhold sailed through the air to bop Horvath on the back of the head. Balthazar up and punched Horvath across the jaw. The handle of the knife in his hand grew incredibly hot, and Horvath had to let it drop. Snarling in anger, the sorcerer gestured at Balthazar. An impressionistic oil painting from further up the hall smashed over his head.

Balthazar was barely able to shield himself as a whirlwind of broken glass and priceless artifacts battered him. A bronze statuette hit him in the side of the head, drawing blood. Through the haze, Balthazar recognized a familiar artifact. Not the Grimhold, no, something far older. He dived for it.

Horvath went reeling after Balthazar hit him over the head with the hourglass. Lunging at his old friend (and enemy), he grabbed the artifact, while swinging his cane with his right hand. Balthazar blocked with his forearm. In their hands, the sands within the hourglass began to glow. Horvath's eyes widened.

"You've got to be kidding me," Balthazar said, and in a flash the pair of them were gone.

_There are times when I haven't run away from a fight, _though Jack Sparrow, _No really, I think I've taken a stand two or three times perhaps? It's not such a big deal after all, even assuming this whole thing isn't just brought on by rum and tavern food (or maybe I'm lying dead back on that boat, surrounded by EITC soldiers). I don't know these people, who's to say my side was the morally accurate or more profitable venture. Besides, unlike Mr. Persia, I'm not even sure I want to go back. There's a whole new world out there, horse-less metal carriages and buildings like mountains and tight trousers on the lasses. I can't let it be a world that's never heard of one Captain Jack Spa-_

For the sake of self-preservation, Jack dived into a roll as a blade cut through the air where his head had been only a second ago. His assailant instead mutilated a rack of ugly statuettes with bobbling heads. Jack shoved another rack of art books toward the attacker, tangling and delaying him further.

An athletic man clad entirely in black was attacking him with a sword he obviously knew how to use. Jack automatically went for his pistol. Two bullets went right through the man's torso and out the other side. There was no blood, and he barely even paused.

"Oh," Jack clicked his tongue, "That figures."

Jack battered the masked man's sword aside with his own blade, and spun away, punching the man in the face. The man took easily, and Jack was barely able to parry a swing that would have severed his head.

Jack fought hard, but the man still pressed him slowly backward. He had greater skill and just a bit more strength. Keeping himself was injury was all the pirate could do, let alone go on the offensive. He did score a point on his unspoken enemy's right arm, but it tore through cloth only.

Jack caught his opponent's blade with his own, and grabbed his wrist, locking their swords together. The mysterious assailant simply seized the front of his shirt, forcing the gleaming swords toward the pirate. Jack put his whole energy into a kick square in the man's chest. The enemy was propelled backward, and Jack tumbled onto his back, taking another rack of merchandise with him. Toy animals spread across the floor.

Jack groaned, looking dazed, raising his sword weakly, but when the enemy lunged, he bounded to his feet and planted a kick behind the man's knees. The man stumbled to the grounds, dismembering several plush tigers, and Jack drew his sword along the front of the man's neck, slicing his throat open. The man went somewhat limp, but there was no blood.

Cautiously, Jack reached down and pulled the man's cloth mask away. Instantly the mask less enemy sprang up and swung his sword. The tip tore open the front of Jack's waistcoat, drawing a line of blood along his chest. A few inches closer and he'd be dead. Jack blocked an overhand swipe, and shoved another to the side, the man shattered several vials of incandescent putty.

The man still said nothing, but his pale face was twisted in rage. No wonder, Jack figured; the man's eyes were milky white and oozed fluid, his nose had been broken many times. Worst of all was his mouth; it had been sown shut with leather cord.

His back against the wall, Jack fell to his knees, as the sword bit deep into the woodwork. Grabbing a rack of brown shirts, Jack tore the hook from the wall, dumping the cloth on his enemy's head. He used the opening to cut deep, cutting the man's sword arm clean off at the elbow.

The man's left fist drilled into Jack's gut. Seemingly feeling no pain, he grabbed for Jack's sword. When the pirate danced away, he slammed into him, knocking Jack into the counter. Jack slashed at the disarmed man as he dived for his sword. Scooping it up, he spun to face the pirate.

"Guess I'll have to cut your damn head off," Jack shrugged.

Their swords met.

…

Balthazar landed on his back in the snow. The sun was blinding. He got to his feet. He was surrounded by a field of snow and ice and there was not a cloud in the sky. A solitary helicopter disappeared into the horizon. The hour glass was half-buried a few feet away. Horvath stumbled upward, fighting to adjust his fur coat. Balthazar raised his hands, feeling the electricity in the air, letting it play across his fingertips, allowing the energy to form a perfect sphere. Then after a second's pause to maximize effectiveness, he released it.

The plasma bolt was knocked straight down, sending a small explosion of slush. Horvath twirled his cane as his energy bolt dealt Balthazar a glancing blow on his side. "I must say I like the tuxedo," said Horvath. His second magical detonation sent Balthazar to one knee as his shield was battered. "That and a haircut, it almost makes you look civilized."

"Your new lady friend is quite the woman," said Balthazar, diving out of the way of another blast. "Compared to her you seem almost human."

"But we are not human, are we Balthazar?" Horvath mused, striding toward him through snow that went up to mid-calf. "We're so much better than that." He swung his cane again, and Balthazar doubled over, it felt as though his stomach had run over by a car.

Horvath's left hook caught him full in the face. So did the next, and the next. Balthazar stumbled away, nearly losing his balance.

Spinning to face the sorcerer, Balthazar jumped, putting his momentum into a plasma bolt that laid Horvath out on his back. He clenched his fist and a localized blizzard of ice and snow surrounded the sorcerer. Balthazar shuffled toward the hourglass, even as he pulled it toward him magically

Horvath's hand clamped around his ankle as the sand began to glow.

…

Ben swung the mace, crushing in the helmet of a suit of medieval armor. He spun with his weapon, knocking the torso away from another suit, which collapsed to twisted pieces on the floor.

A mannequin in an antique French army uniform charged at Abigail Chase. Its bayonet plunged deep into the abandoned mummy torso she seized to defend herself. Becky tackled the mannequin from behind, and twisted till its plastic head popped off.

"I am sincerely not enjoying this," Riley kicked a terra-cotta warrior in the chest, knocking it against a pillar, where it shattered. He picked up its spear only to have the weapon sliced into two by the samurai sword of a suit of oriental armor.

Dastan appeared out of nowhere, swords dancing in his hands. The samurai's armor was hard-pressed to defend itself.

"There's no way out over there, only pain and destruction," Jack Sparrow bounded into the room. He had perhaps the oddest run Ben had ever seen, but it didn't matter for right on his heels was a sword-brandishing one-armed ninja with a pale face and a sown-up mouth.

"Look out, it's Fred," Becky warned him unnecessarily. Snatching the axe from the mannequin of a passing Mesoamerican chieftain, Jack threw the axe edgeways. It was a surprisingly good throw, but the ninja launched himself into the air and flipped over the axe to land on his feet before Jack…only to lock blades the Persia's very own prince.

Dastan stabbed high, making Fred duck, while defending his midsection with his other sword. Dastan spun; Fred blocked one sword, then the other. Jack eagerly tiptoed away, pleased to see that monster on the defensive.

There was a distinct clacking as two mannequins in the uniform of 17-th century soldiers cocked their muskets. The pair leveled their guns at Jack, who raised his sword. "Some things never change," said the captain.

…

Screams of pain filled the smoky air, mingling with the smell of smoke and blood. A plasma bolt knocked the hourglass from Balthazar's hands, sending it tumbling into the crowd. Horvath and Balthazar were surrounded by men, knights in metal armor and white cloth with red crosses emblazoned on them and darker men in robes with curvier swords. The city around them burned.

Balthazar glimpsed the spyglass, kicked about by men fighting for their lives, and pushed toward it. A Muslim warrior looped at him, swinging his sword. Balthazar grabbed his forearms, keeping the blade from his face, and shoved him away. There was no need to hurt these people, more than enough of that was going on already.

Horvath didn't seem the think so. He twisted the torch from a Muslim's hand and blew, a jet of flame like the breath of a dragon enveloped several crusader knights. Balthazar ducked under the swung of a broadsword, and kicked the knight off his feet. He blasted the torch out of Horvath's hands with an invisible energy bolt.

The downed knight swung at Balthazar, who kicked the sword from his hands. An arrow flew straight toward him; Balthazar snatched it from the air and hurled it at Horvath. Horvath knocked it aside, and the arrow went straight through the eye-slits of a crusader knight's helmet. Horvath ducked under the swing of another knight's sword, and hit him the gut with his cane. The man was thrown into the air to slam down on his head, as Horvath dived for the hourglass.

Balthazar scooped up the broadsword, and used it to parry a Muslim's attack, before punching the soldier in the face. Horvath held the artifact now, the sands of time within began to glow. Balthazar reached out to grab…

The Crusades disappeared in a flash of sand and fire. Humidity and sulfur replaced them, a volcanoes mountain looming above them. Below the incline of brown rock was a lush and colorful jungle. A large winged shape flitted through the sky above.

Balthazar's heel slammed into Horvath's knee. There was an unappetizing crunch as the sorcerer fell, while Balthazar pulled away. He was still carrying the sword in his right hand, but he swung with his left, catching Horvath the face with the hourglass. Horvath rolled away. Balthazar noticed his hat was missing, most likely lost centuries ago.

Horvath hurled a rock the size of his head telekinetically, but Balthazar was able the knock it aside. Setting the hourglass down, he moved toward Horvath, hefting the broadsword. Blue energy crackled along its blade, ending in a bolt that took Horvath hard in the in the side.

Horvath's cane glowed, sheathed a writhing plasma exoskeleton. Balthazar felt the charge as he ducked away from it. Horvath came in from the left, and Balthazar felt the shock down his arms as he blocked. Horvath swung again, and snapping six inches off Balthazar's sword.

Balthazar hurled a plasma bolt, which Horvath easily blocked, distracting the sorcerer as the unstable ground beneath him cracked and shifted. Horvath lost his balance, and was hard-pressed to block Balthazar's strike with his cane, while another flying rock hit him in back of the head.

Balthazar's sword came down again and again, he shouted as he finally knocked the sword from Horvath's grasp. The sword tore through the front of Horvath's suit and charged with blue energy again, a blast which laid Horvath out on his back.

Balthazar put the jagged edge of the sword to Horvath's neck. Horvath coughed, blood trickled from a nostril. "You won't really do it, will you?"

Balthazar said nothing, nor did he react.

"That's why you need the boy," Horvath chuckled, "I see it now. You can't bring yourself to kill one of us, not even to save your precious Veronica. I ran her through Balthazar, you can do that to me right here, right now."

"I don't respect you enough to kill you," said Balthazar. "You're nothing but a psychopathic old man."

"And you aren't?"

"I didn't say that."

"You're weak," Horvath hissed. "Veronica chose-"

"You're right," said Balthazar, and he punched him in the face.

…

Dave Stutler crawled from the wreckage of the wall, coughing up rock dust. He recognized the gallery, lots of gold. He'd seen pictures of a few of these things, the masonic medallion, the Egyptian statue, this was the Gates exhibit.

A piece of rubble hit him in back of the head, drawing blood. "I'm over here, boy," said Ysabelle, emerging from the dust. Dave hurled a plasma bolt at her; she caught it and threw it back. Dave slid away on his back. "What," she said, "Think you're the only one who can do magic without a gem."

Ysabelle ran at him, hurling bolt after magical bolt, Dave's shield splintered and nearly shattered beneath them. Reaching behind him, he grabbed a chunk of masonry and swung. He bashed Ysabelle in the head and she spun away. His kick drilled into her side, Dave pushed magically, sending her flying into a display case for ancient scrolls.

Ysabelle flung her arm out, a dozen shards of broken glass looped toward him. One drew a gash across his cheek, and another sliced across his hip. The other projectiles clattered to the ground, deflected.

Plasma energy played along Ysabelle's right arm, coalescing into a gleaming length, almost like a sword. She swung, and Dave jumped away as it scored a crater in the floor. A ceremonial knife flew to his hand, but Dave's attempt to parry the energy-sword resulted in his own blade shattering in his hand.

Dave's twin plasma bolts burst against Ysabelle's shield and the shockwave threw him on his back. Ysabelle leapt to run him through, but Dave caught her sword with his own shield. Her head snapped back as a plasma bolt hit her upside the head, her blade disappearing.

_I can't beat her,_ Dave thought and then, _Balthazar told me no Sorcerer could perform magic without their ring or whatever they use, except for me. Either he's wrong or she's lying…_

Dave swung hard, scoring a blow across her face. He punched again, but Ysabelle caught his forearm in her own powerful grip. Dave simply jabbed with his left, shoving the shard of glass deep into her gut.

Dave stumbled away from her shove, his hand bloody. Ysabelle's hand went to her abdomen, where the gash had already closed. "Damn you, Dave," she said. "Do you any idea how long it's going to take to get that out?"

"No," said Dave, "But I'd love to help."

The light fixture above him burst, and Dave screamed in pain as an electrical current enveloped him. He blocked a plasma bolt with his forearm, and threw a hand out, the display case behind him shattered. He grabbed the staff from within, like a spear but with a longer blade and the end, and spun into a jab. The blade cut deep, slicing through Ysabelle's thigh down to the bone.

The shaft shattered in his hands, but Dave saw what he was looking for. A glint of precious stone, and emerald he guessed, buried deep in the flesh.

Dave's eyes glowed as he raised his hand, palm outstretched. For just an instant he saw a glint of worry in Ysabelle's eyes, something he hadn't seen before. He was on the right track. And then his jacket burst into flames. Dave summoned a vacuum around himself, extinguishing the fire. He dodged aside to avoid Ysabelle's punch.

She swung again, and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her off-balance, he shoved his knee up into her gut. Dave shoved her away, she slammed into a pillar. A curved sword impaled her left arm and sank deep into the stone.

Dave was on top of her, forcing her right arm against the stone and into it, phasing rock and flesh together. Ysabelle screamed. Dave's left hand wrapped around her neck, slamming her head into the pillar, while his other hand splayed over her heart. Whispering a few charms under his breath, Dave pushed.

Ysabelle wrapped her legs around him and squeezed, twisting her head she sank her teeth into his wrist, but to no avail. Her skin began to roil, breaking and blistering, his hand sank into her chest, he felt hot blood, and then the worst, pain he'd ever felt. It was the shard of glass, it exploded from her gut and cut deep, like a bullet, through his chest and out the other side.

Ysabelle was coming apart, her flesh unraveling. Gems and rings, the tokens of a hundred sorcerers clattered to the floor, leaving little drops of blood as she fell to pieces. Dave could feel his heart beat once, twice more, like a gong in his head, and then stop as the floor rushed up to meet him.

They lay there together, neither living, the Prime Merlinian and Morgana's apprentice, surrounded by blood and bone and magical artifacts.

There was another beat. The wound in Dave's chest began to heal.

…

Jack Sparrow knocked the rifle up with the sword, the bullet sent into the ceiling. He grabbed the gun of the other redcoat mannequin. He severed the first one in two and then stabbed the second through the head, wrenching its cranium away. Jack threw the rifle away and began kicking in the flailing mannequin's torso. Riley caught the firearm and swung it like a club, knocking a stuffed orangutan on its back.

Even with one arm, Dastan was finding Fred a formidable opponent. "Ben," he heard Abigail shout, as a monster of bones pounced at her. Dastan shouted to Ben, who had no idea what he said, and leapt, kicking of Fred's chest and bounding toward Abigail.

Seeming now to understand, Ben charged, swinging his mace, which crushed Fred's ribcage inward. Kicking off the remains of a display case, Dastan summersaulted through the air, landing on the dinosaurs back. His twin swords went snicker-snack; its spine sabotaged the dinosaur collapsed on top of Abigail, covering her with dust and fossils.

Ben cried out as Fred sliced him across the chest. If not for the leather trench coat, the wound might have proved fatal. He punched at Fred, but the silent man ignored it, cutting him across the legs. Ben collapsed, and Fred grabbed him by the head, sliding his sword to slice open his neck.

Looking up from what had used to be a well preserved ape, Riley could've sworn this was about to become the last time he saw the man who was possibly his best friend alive, until the Persian prince appeared in the air behind the pair, his hair flowing, his swords gleaming. Dastan landed in a crouch, his swords extended. Fred's torso collapsed against Ben, his head rolled away, eyes wide-open in death.

"Oh it is _sooo _good to talk again," said Becky Barnes in a voice that was her own, but with completely different inflection. "I want the Persian. Now, or I snap her neck."

Abigail Chase attempted to say something selfless and dramatic, but it came out as a dry wheeze. Becky's hand was clamped around her throat, holding her up off the floor by one hand. Her eyes were white.

There was the clack of a gun being cocked. "Set her down," said Riley, holding his musket leveled at Becky's head. She didn't, but nor did he fire. The trigger was cold under his finger; Riley didn't feel like he could do it. He couldn't kill this girl, the girl who he'd been fighting alongside moments ago, who was surprisingly nice and attractive, whatever she saw in that Dave Stutler (Riley considered himself even geekier, and also human).

There was the clack of another gun. Jack Sparrow's pistol brushed the back of Riley's head. "Him I understand, but what are you doing?" Ben sighed. The stand-off was tense enough he only vaguely realized the museum exhibits were no longer animated and trying to kill him.

"I tried it already," said Jack "Didn't work. More importantly, soon as you destroy that oh-so-lovely mortal frame, the immaterial beasty is going to have to go somewhere. I will not allow that somewhere to be me."

"It's going to hell, actually," said Dave Stutler, entering the room. He was badly bruised and bloodied but alive. Becky/Fred tightened its grip on Abigail's throat, but it was too late, in a flash a shimmering outline was drawn out of Becky's eyes, ears, nose and mouth, forming a shimmering screaming maw in the air before dissipating. "Goodbye, Fred."

Becky collapsed into Dave's arms. Abigail collapsed into Ben's arms. Dastan glanced at Riley, who shrugged. "Where's the wench," Jack asked Dave.

"Dead," he said bluntly.

"How'd you kill an immortal?" Riley asked.

"Turns out she wasn't immortal," said Dave. "She'd just been killing other sorcerers and taking their power for thousands of years. With their rings she was able to perform incredible feats of magic with an emphasis on healing. So to defeat her I used her signature trick against her. I have her power now."

"I'm going to pretend I understood that," said Abigail.

Dastan said something that none of them could understand.

"Where's Balthazar?" Dave asked.

"No idea," said Ben, "I thought he was with you."

"He was, but then…"

There was a flash of burning sand, and Balthazar Blake was kneeling among them with the hourglass in one hand, and Horvath's cane in the other. The dark sorcerer lay unconscious beside him.

"I won," Dave told him.

"Of course we did," said Balthazar. "Now has anyone seen that Grimhold around here?"

"Pity," Ben whispered to Abigail, nodding at the sorcerer. "That was my favorite tuxedo."


	12. Chapter 12: Legends Continue

Chapter twelve: Legends Continue

The hourglass turned slowly in the air, suspended telekinetically between Dave's palms. The sands inside it roiled and gleamed as the artifact faded and disappeared.

"Now that Sparrow and Dastan have been returned to their own times," Balthazar explained to Ben, Abigail, Riley and Becky, who were seated comfortably in Dave's laboratory, "The hourglass itself is a liability, so we spread its essence across the time machine, in essence, well, no one will be able to find it again, let alone use it. It's too dangerous, the impact someone could make on past, present and future with that device is unfathomable."

"The scientist in me is a bit sad to see it go, actually," said Dave. "We could have learned a lot with a working time machine. But the sane part of me agrees with you."

"Sane?" Balthazar raised an eyebrow.

Dave held up his thumb and forefinger and inch apart.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Gates," Balthazar shook hands with Ben. "You're one of the finest mortals I've had the pleasure to work with."

"And you're among the finest historical artifacts," said Ben. They both laughed.

"Take care of yourself," Becky hugged Abigail, "And these two."

"Oh, I'll do my best," said Dr. Chase. "I hope you do the same."

"I'll try, though I doubt Dave needs much protection, not now."

"Thank you," Riley said to Dave, "For disproving half a dozen of my theories."

"You're welcome, I think," said Dave.

"Wait a second," said Riley, "Why are we all saying goodbye? It's not like this is really the end. I mean, I for one will remember this for the rest of my life."

"Actually…" said Balthazar, with an apologetic tone.

…

Dastan awoke with visions fading before his eyes, like a most peculiar dream. Night was falling, and he recognized his surroundings as the place he'd last remembered making camp. Tamina. She would be fine, he hoped, Bis was with her, but there was no time to loose, not with people like the bandits who had attacked them earlier about.

Dastan moved into a brisk walk. Who had sent the black-clad men, and what had they wanted, other than to kill him and his men. Dastan hadn't the slightest idea, but he intended to find out. The safety of his wife and even his kingdom could depend on it.

There was something else too, the one warrior, he had done things Dastan could not have imagined before. There was mystery afoot, arcane powers looming, neither of which Dastan was ill-equipped to deal with. Still, as he moved across the sand in pursuit of his wife and best friend, he felt some reservations.

…

"Why did you do that?" Becky asked, "Wipe their memories before sending them away?"

"It had to be done," said Balthazar "To protect them, and to protect us. The less people who know about magic the better. If the general public knew about us the results would be disastrous."

"Yeah, we might even have to tell the truth once in a while," said Dave.

"There's always another threat, Dave."

"Morgana's dead, Ysabelle's dead, Drake Stone and that Chinese guy and that Salem witch are all dead. And Horvath's imprisoned in the Grimhold."

"Well…there'll be someone. You make my words."

"Consider them marked."

"I guess it just makes me uncomfortable," Becky admitted. "As if any moment you'll do that to me."

"Not to worry, you're far too valuable," Balthazar told her.

"Valuable, to you guys?"

"To him," said Balthazar. "Dave needs you."

Dave flushed. "I, uh, well…yes, so…"

"Just kiss me," Becky told him.

And he did.

Balthazar sighed, looking away. "The sorcerer's life is a lonely one…"

"Are you sure about that Balthazar?"

"Veronica?" She padded in on bare feet. She looked worn, tired, but she was alive and her wound was healed.

"Oh, I helped her out with that," Dave called. "Put my new healing powers to good use. Maybe I should go into medicine as well as physics? I could go places."

"Sure, though the whole keeping magic secret thing might…" Balthazar trailed off, his eyes only for Veronica.

"Just kiss me," she told him.

And he did.

…

Goyne looked up from his ale and was quite surprised to see Jack Sparrow slide into the seat across from him. It was early yet; the Calling Siren was mostly free of patrons. Goyne kept his voice down, "I thought you were dead."

"Not this time," said Jack.

"It's been months since _The Indulgence_ set sail, you must have gotten even more drunk that usual. What was her name?"

"Ysabelle," said Jack.

"Sounds exotic."

"She was a feisty one," Jack said, "But her charm…now that was magical."

Jack Sparrow remembered everything. Almost everything at least. He could guess what Balthazar had tried to do him before sending him home, but Jack had kept his focus, pondering on a few techniques Tia Dalma had taught him to avoid the worst of magic to ensnare the mind.

"Are you quite sure you got away scotch-free?" Goyne asked.

Jack patted his arms, looking down at himself. "I think so. Why?"

"I just hear things."

"Oh," Jack felt for his coin purse.

"Thank you," said Goyne. "Word said you were captured. Not by Bronson, now. These were King's men, British soldiers. They're said to be taking you across the sea to merry old England to stand trial for your crimes. Quite a catch, one of the nine pirate lords and all that."

"Oh, interesting," said Jack. "That could be worth a look." He took out another coin, "Any news of the Pearl? Me old crew? Even Hector Barbossa?"

"No, I'm sorry to say," said Goyne. "But there are rumors afoot, ill tidings. A new threat, a rogue pirate. Ships of all kinds are disappearing, no survivors to be found."

"I'll be careful," said Jack, "I always am. Do you know where I could book passage to England?"

"There's a merchant vessel here in fact, taking on cargo from a rumrunner. You might be able to book passage; he's rather open-minded or sympathetic if you catch my meaning."

"Consider it caught."

"Be careful, Jack. A man can't stand alone against the world quite so well anymore. Not even Jack Sparrow. There's a change in the tide, I can smell it."

Jack got to his feet. "I've sailed stranger."

THE END


End file.
